UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

DR.    MALBONE   W.    GRAHAM 


WREATHED    WITH    HOLLY  [Page  125] 


ON  THE  ROAD  HOME 


BY 

MARGARET  E.  SANGSTER 

"  East  or  West  hame  is  best " 
ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER  AND  BROTHERS 
MDCCCXCIV 


Copyright,  1893,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


en 
to 

03 

CD 


TS 

^"1 

(05$ 


4 

u. 

o 

t 


TO 

MY  FRIEND 
HARRIET  PRESCOTT  SPOFFORD 


or: 


51448 


The  poems  in  this  volume  originally  ap 
peared  in  HARPER'S  BAZAR  and  WEEK 
LY,  The  Congregationalist,  The  Christian  Intel 
ligencer,  Ladies'  Home  Journal,  Home  -  Maker, 
and  Sunday-School  Times. 


CONTENTS 


I  — FOR  SIX  DAYS   OUT  OF  SEVEN 

Page 

THE   SIN   OF  OMISSION I 

HIS   FIRST   LOVE 3 

INTANGIBLE 5 

THE   PASSING  YEAR 8 

THE   DEAR   LITTLE  WIFE   AT    HOME      .       .  12 

IF   MOTHER   WOULD    LISTEN 14 

PATIENT   WITH  THE  LIVING l6 

IN    THE   NIGHT    SEASON l8 

THE  GAIN   OF   LOSS 21 

THE  WIND   ACROSS    THE   WHEAT      ...  23 

THE   HELP   THAT    COMES   TOO   LATE      .       .  26 

WAITING   FOR   THE   ANGELS 28 

WHITTIER 3O 

TENNYSON 32 

A  BALLAD    OF   MAY 33 

THEN  AND   NOW 37 

THE   EVENING   LESSON 41 


Page 

BELLS   IN  THE   DESERT 44 

A   LESSON 47 

CHRYSANTHEMUMS 49 

IN  THE  BELFRY 51 

IN   HAMPTON   ROADS 53 

FLOWERS   FOR   MEMORIAL   DAY  ....  54 

CROSSING  THE  DOWN-TOWN   FERRIES        .  57 

II  — LOOKING  UPWARD 

TWO   OR   THREE 6l 

TE  DEUM   LAUDAMUS 63 

HOW  LONG? 65 

GOD'S  APPOINTMENTS 67 

A  KING'S   MESSENGER 69 

THE  CITY  OF   GOD 74 

A  SONG  OF   SUMMER 76 

A   DAY   OF  THE   LORD 78 

THE  INVISIBLE   GUEST 80 

THEY   NEITHER  TOIL  NOR   SPIN  ....  83 

THE  CORE   OF  THE   HOUSE 85 

THE  CHILD   AT  THE  GATE 89 

OUR   BROKEN   DAYS gi 

THE  COMMUNION  OF  SAINTS 94 

MY    ALABASTER    BOX 97 

ONLY   IN   THEE IQO 

GOING   HOME  .      .                                                      .  102 


Ill  — THANKSGIVING 

fUft 

IN  THE  OLD  HOME IO7 

THANKSGIVING  ALWAYS IIO 

MOTHER'S  THANKSGIVING 113 

COMMON   MERCIES Il6 

IV -CHRISTMAS   SONGS 

HER  GIFTS 121 

EMBERS 123 

WREATHED   WITH   HOLLY        .       .      .      r      .    12$ 

THE  ANNUNCIATION 12? 

THE  STAR   OF  BETHLEHEM I2Q 

WHEN   CHRISTMAS   COMES 132 

CHRISTMAS   EVE 134 

GOD   BLESS   US   ALL 137 

V— EASTER 

AN    EASTER   SONG 14! 

MARY 143 


I 
FOR  SIX  DAYS  OUT  OF  SEVEN 


THE   SIN    OF   OMISSION 

IT  isn't  the  thing  you  do,  Dear, 

It's  the  thing  you  leave  undone 
That  gives  you  a  bit  of  a  heartache 

At  the  setting  of  the  sun. 
The  tender  word  forgotten  ; 

The  letter  you  did  not  write  ; 
The  flower  you  did  not  send,  Dear, 

Are  your  haunting  ghosts  at  night. 

The  stone  you  might  have  lifted 

Out  of  a  brother's  way  ; 
The  bit  of  heartsome  counsel 

You  were  hurried  too  much  to  say; 
The  loving  touch  of  the  hand,  Dear, 

The  gentle,  winning  tone 
Which  you  had  no  time  nor  thought  for 

With  troubles  enough  of  your  own. 

Those  little  acts  of  kindness 

So  easily  out  of  mind, 
Those  chances  to  be  angels 

Which  we  poor  mortals  find, 

A  I 


They  come  in  night  and  silence, 
Each  sad,  reproachful  wraith, 

When  hope  is  faint  and  flagging 
And  a  chill  has  fallen  on  faith. 

For  life  is  all  too  short,  Dear, 

And  sorrow  is  all  too  great 
To  suffer  our  slow  compassion 

That  tarries  until  too  late  ; 
And  it  isn't  the  thing  you  do,  Dear, 

It's  the  thing  you  leave  undone 
Which  gives  you  a  bit  of  a  heartache 

At  the  setting  of  the  sun. 


HIS    FIRST    LOVE 

His  first  love  ?     Yes,  I  knew  her  very  well — 
Yes,  she  was  young  and  beautiful,  like  you  ; 

With  cheeks  rose-flushed,  and  lovely  eyes  that 

tell 
If  people  praised  her  overmuch,  but  true 

And  fearless,  flashing  out  as  blue  eyes  can 

At  any  cruelty  to  beast  or  man. 

Her  voice  ?     'Twas  very  gentle,  sweet  and  low, 
With  tones  to  hush  a  tired  child  to  sleep ; 

In  every  cadence  clear,  its  silvery  flow 
Beside  a  sick-bed  had  a  charm  so  deep 

Its  spell  could  banish  creeping  waves  of  pain, 

Bring  easeful  quiet  to  the  fevered  brain. 

Her  hands?     Well,  dear,  they  were  not  quite 

so  small 

As  those  that  trifle  with  your  dainty  laces  ; 
A  little  browned,  perhaps,  they  had  such  call 

To  carry  sunshine  into  shady  places ; 
Less  delicate  than  yours,  and  yet  I  doubt 
If  one  who  loved  her  ever  found  it  out. 
3 


Her  feet?    Sure  never  steps  so  swift  and  steady 
Went  straight  as  arrow  flying  to  a  goal  5 

If  duty  summoned  her,  the  ever  ready 
To  minister  to  any  ailing  soul. 

Dear  feet  that  followed  where  the  Master  led, 

And  set  their  prints  where  first  He'd  left  His 
tread ! 

His  first  love  ?     Oh,  you  do  begin  to  see 
That  he  might  love  her  dearly,  and  that  yet 

His  manhood's  love  to  you  might  guerdon  be, 
Upon  your  woman's  brow,  its  coronet. 

Dear  girl,  accept  the  gift.     There  is  no  other 

First  love  so  holy  as  she  gained — his  mother. 


INTANGIBLE 

PATIENTLY  over  the  road  we  fare, 

Intent  on  the  end  we'd  win ; 
There's  a  hint  of  frost  in  the  misty  air, 

And  the  night  is  closing  in ; 
But  vague  and  far  from  the  muffled  past 

Comes  a  tender,  haunting  tone, 
And  we  grasp  the  skirts  of  a  memory  fast, 

From  the  land  of  our  morning  blown. 

'Tis  the  faint,  sweet  sound  of  a  tinkling  bell 

Over  the  pastures  borne ; 
'Tis  the  lamb's  low  bleat  on  the  lonesome  fell ; 

'Tis  a  rustle  amid  the  corn  ; 
The  scud  and  rmh  of  the  squirrel's  tread 

Parting  the  withered  leaves, 
Or  the  twitter  of  swallows  overhead 

In  the  dusk  of  the  cottage  eaves. 

And  once  again  we  are  boys  and  girls 
In  a  round  of  school  and  play, 
5 


With  a  mother's  hand  on  our  tangled  curls, 
When  we  kneel  at  her  lap  to  pray. 

Nothing  we  reck  of  the  ring  of  gold, 
Nor  the  fall  of  the  dice  on  'Change, 

For  the  beautiful  story  is  all  untold, 
And  the  world  yet  new  and  strange. 

And  lo !    instead  of  the  masks  we  wear 

In  the  throngs  we  meet  to-day, 
Instead  of  the  shoulders  bowed  to  bear, 

And  the  eyes  no  longer  gay, 
Our  cheeks  are  quick  with  the  sudden  flush, 

We  are  eager  for  work  and  strife, 
And  never  a  sorrow  has  come  to  hush 

Our  jubilant  pulse  of  life. 

We  sometimes  catch  in  the  crowded  street 

A  dear  pet  name  we  knew, 
Ere  the  dance  had  gone  from  the  childish  feet, 

Or  we'd  gathered  a  sprig  of  rue  j 
'Tis  somebody  else  who  claims  it  now, 

But  the  spell  of  the  old-time  tone 
Brings  unawares  unto  lip  and  brow 

The  light  of  another  zone. 

Faring  apace  to  the  end — 'tis  true, 

Yet  ever  behind  us  lies 
The  shimmering  pearl  and  the  fathomless  blue 

Of  the  lucent  morning  skies. 
6 


And  the  wealth  we  prize  as  first  and  best 
Is  a  wealth  no  scales  can  weigh, 

For  'tis  not  in  the  East,  and  not  in  the  West, 
And  not  on  the  earth  to-day. 


THE   PASSING   YEAR 

BY  the  glimmer  of  green  and  golden, 

The  leap  and  the  sparkle  of  spray, 
By  the  heart  of  the  rose  unfolden 

To  the  breath  of  the  summer  day. 
By  the  shout  and  song  of  the  reapers 

Binding  the  ripened  sheaf, 
By  the  bloom  on  the  fragrant  cluster, 

By  the  fall  of  the  loosened  leaf, 
By  the  feathery  whirl  of  the  winter, 

And  the  deep  waves'  hollow  sound, 
By  the  moan  of  the  wind  in  the  forest 

When  the  night  was  gathering  round. 
By  the  sweet  of  the  honey  of  lilies, 

By  the  fields  all  brown  and  sere, 
Through  the  march  of  the  changing  seasons, 

We  measured  the  passing  year. 

By  the  baby's  step  on  the  carpet, 

By  her  earliest  broken  word  ; 
And 'her  laugh  as  she  ran  to  meet  us — 

Merrier  never  was  heard, 
8 


By  the  time  when  she  said,  "  Our  Father,' 

With  two  little  hands  held  up, 
And  the  flower-face  softly  bending 

.Like  a  blossom's  brimming  cup, 
By  the  day  she  was  parched  with  fever, 

And  spent  with  the  stress  of  pain, 
By  the  hour  we  gave  thanksgiving 

That  baby  was  well  again, 
By  the  hide  and  seek  of  her  dimples, 

And  the  start  of  her  April  tear, 
By  the  grace  of  our  darling's  growing 

We  measured  the  passing  year. 

By  the  love  that  is  tried  and  precious, 

And  needful  as  daily  bread, 
By  the  fond  hands  clasped  in  ours, 

As  the  chequered  path  we  tread, 
By  the  glow  of  the  household  faces, 

And  the  hush  of  the  household  peace, 
By  the  beautiful  wifely  presence, 

That  gives  to  care  surcease, 
By  the  looks  that  are  ever  tender, 

The  kiss  that  is  always  true, 
By  the  small  familiar  sayings, 

And  the  work  we  daily  do, 
By  board  and  loaf  and  flagon, 

And  the  coming  of  kindred  dear, 
The  home's  unwritten  story, 

We've  measured  the  passing  year. 
9 


By  the  brave  things  thought  or  spoken, 

By  the  true  deeds  simply  done, 
By  the   mean   things  crushed  and   conquered 

And  the  bloodless  battles  won, 
By  the  days  when  the  load  was  heavy, 

Yet  the  heart  grew  strong  to  bear, 
By  the  days  when  the  heart  was  craven, 

Lacking  the  strength  of"  prayer. 
By  the  hour  that  crept  slow-footed, 

And  the  hour  that  flew  on  wings, 
The  time  when  the  harp  was  silent, 

The  time  when  we  swept  the  strings. 
By  the  dearth,  the  dole,  and  the  labor, 

The  fulness,  reward,  and  cheer, 
By  the  book  of  the  angel's  record 

We  measured  the  passing  year, 

By  the  joy  of  the  Christmas  carols, 

And  the  solemn  shade  of  the  cross, 
By  the  breaking  dawn  of  Easter, 

And  the  gain  that  follows  loss. 
By  the  name  of  the  world's  Redeemer, 

And  the  sins  we  trample  down, 
By  the  light  that  shines  above  us, 

Though  the  darkling  cloud  may  frown, 
By  the  silent  voices  calling, 

By  the  dear  remembered  eyes, 
By  the  heaven  which  ever  beckons, 

Beyond  these  earthly  skies, 


By  credos  grand  and  steadfast, 
Banishing  doubt  and  fear, 

By  the  Christian's  hope  and  comfort, 
We've  measured  the  passing  year. 


THE  DEAR  LITTLE  WIFE  AT  HOME 

THE  dear  little  wife  at  home,  John, 

With  ever  so  much  to  do, 
Stitches  to  set,  and  babies  to  pet, 

And  so  many  thoughts  of  you — 
The  beautiful  household  fairy, 

Filling  your  heart  with  light ; 
Whatever  you  meet  to-day,  John, 

Go  cheerily  home  to-night. 

For  though  you  are  worn  and  weary, 

You  needn't  be  cross  or  curt  ; 
There  are  words  like  darts  to  gentle  hearts, 

There  are  looks  that  wound  and  hurt. 
With  the  key  in  the  latch  at  home,  John, 

Drop  troubles  out  of  sight ; 
To  the  dear  little  wife  who  is  waiting, 

Go  cheerily  home  to-night. 

You  know  she  will  come  to  meet  you, 

A  smile  on  her  sunny  face  ; 
And  your  wee  little  girl,  as  pure  as  a  pearl, 

Will  be  there  in  her  childish  grace ; 
12 


And  the  boy,  his  father's  pride,  John, 
With  eyes  so  brave  and  bright ; 

From  the  strife  and  the  din  to  the  peace,  John, 
Go  cheerily  home  to-night. 

What  though  the  tempter  try  you, 

Though  the  shafts  of  adverse  fate 
May  bustle  near,  and  the  sky  be  drear, 

And  the  laggard  fortune  wait? 
You  are  passing  rich  already, 

Let  the  haunting  fears  take  flight  ; 
With  the  fate  that  wins  success,  John, 

Go  cheerily  home  to-night. 


IF   MOTHER   WOULD   LISTEN 

IF  mother  would  listen  to  me,  dears, 

She  would  freshen  that  faded  gown  ; 
She  would  sometimes  take  an  hour's  rest, 

And  sometimes  a  trip  to  town. 
And  it  shouldn't  be  all  for  the  children, 

The  fun  and  the  cheer  and  the  play  j 
With  the  patient  droop  on  the  tired  mouth, 

And  the  "  mother  has  had  her  day." 

True,  mother  has  had  her  day,  dears, 

When  you  were  her  babies  three, 
And  she  stepped  about  the  farm  and  the  house, 

As  busy  as  ever  a  bee. 
When  she  rocked  you  all  to  sleep,  dears, 

And  sent  you  all  to  school, 
And  wore  herself  out,  and  did  without, 

And  lived  by  the  Golden  Rule. 

And  so  your  turn  has  come,  dears, 

Her  hair  is  growing  white, 
And  her  eyes  are  gaining  that  far-away  look 

That  peers  beyond  the  night. 


One  of  these  days  in  the  morning, 

Mother  will  not  be  here ; 
She  will  fade  away  into  silence, 

The  mother  so  true  and  dear. 

Then  what  will  you  do  in  the  daylight, 

And  what  in  the  gloaming  dim  ? 
And  father  tired  and  lonesome  then, 

Pray  what  will  you  do  for  him  ? 
If  you  want  to  keep  your  mother, 

You  must  make  her  rest  to-day ; 
Must  give  her  a  share  in  the  frolic, 

And  draw  her  into  the  play. 

And  it  mother  would  listen  to  me,  dears, 

She'd  buy  her  a  gown  of  silk, 
With  buttons  of  royal  velvet, 

And  ruffles  as  white*  as  milk. 
And  she'd  let  you  do  the  trotting, 

While  she  sat  still  in  the  chair  ; 
That  mother  should  have  it  hard  all  through, 

It  strikes  me  isn't  fair. 


PATIENT  WITH   THE   LIVING 

SWEET  friend,  when  thou  and  I  are  gone 

Beyond  earth's  weary  labor, 
When  small  shall   be  our  need  of  grace 

From  comrade  or  from  neighbor, 
Past  all  the  strife,  the  toil,  the  care, 

And  done  with  all  the  sighing, 
What  tender  ruth  shall  we  have  gained, 

Alas,  by  simply  dying ! 

Then  lips  too  chary  for  their  praise 

Will  tell  our  merits  over, 
And  eyes  too  swift  our  faults  to  see 

Shall  no  defect  discover. 
Then  hands  that  would  not  lift  a  stone 

Where  stones  were  thick  to  cumber 
Our  steep  hill  path,  will  scatter  flowers 

Above  our  pillowed  slumber. 

Sweet  friend,  perchance  both  thou  and  I, 

Ere  love  is  past  forgiving, 
Should  take  the  earnest  lesson  home — 

Be  patient  with  the  living. 
16 


To-day's  repressed  rebuke  may  save 
Our  blinding  tears  to-morrow  j 

Then  patience,  e'en  when  keenest  edge 
May  whet  a  nameless  sorrow. 

'Tis  easy  to  be  gentle  when 

Death's  silence  shames  our  clamor, 
And  easy  to  discern  the  best 

Through  memory's  mystic  glamour  ; 
But  wise  it  were  for  thee  and  me, 

Ere  love  is  past  forgiving, 
To  take  the  tender  lesson  home — 

Be  patient  with  the  living. 


IN   THE   NIGHT   SEASON 

You  are  face  to  face  with  trouble, 

And  the  skies  are  murk  and  gray ; 
You  hardly  know  which  way  to  turn, 

You  are  almost  dazed,  you  say. 
And  at  night  you  wake  to  wonder 

What  the  next  day's  news  will  bring  ; 
Your  pillow  is  brushed  by  phantom  care 

With  a  grim  and  ghastly  wing. 

You  are  face  to  face  with  trouble  ; 

A  child  has  gone  astray  ; 
A  ship  is  wrecked  on  the  bitter  sea ; 

There's  a  note  you  cannot  pay. 
Your  brave  right  hand  is  feeble  $ 

Your  sight  is  growing  blind  ; 
Perhaps  a  friend  is  cold  and  stern, 

Who  was  ever  warm  and  kind. 

You  are  face  to  face  with  trouble ! 

No  wonder  you  cannot  sleep  $ 
But  stay  ;  and  think  of  the  promise, 

The  Lord  will  safely  keep 
18 


And  lead  you  out  of  the  thicket, 

And  into  the  pasture  land  ,- 
You  have  only  to  walk  straight  onward, 

Holding  the  dear  Lord's  hand. 

Face  to  face  with  trouble  ; 

And  did  you  forget  to  look, 
As  the  good  old  father  taught  you, 

For  help  to  the  dear  old  Book  ? 
You  have  heard  the  tempter  whisper ; 

And  you've  had  no  heart  to  pray  ; 
And  God  was  dropped  from  your  scheme  of 
life, 

Oh  !    for  many  a  weary  day ! 

Then  face  to  face  with  trouble  ; 

It  is  thus  He  calls  you  back 
From  the  land  of  dearth  and  famine 

To  the  land  that  has  no  lack. 
You  would  not  hear  in  the  sunshine, 

You  hear  in  the  midnight  gloom  $ 
Behold,  His  tapers  kindle 

Like  stars  in  the  quiet  room. 

Oh  !   face  to  face  with  trouble, 

Friend,  I  have  often  stood  ; 
To  learn  that  pain  hath  sweetness, 

To  know  that  God  is  good. 
19 


Arise  and  meet  the  daylight ; 

Be  strong,  and  do  your  best ! 
With  an  honest  heart,  and  a  childlike  faith 

That  God  will  do  the  rest. 


THE   GAIN   OF   LOSS 

WE  hollowed  the  bed  for  our  darling's  rest, 
And  lined  it  with  roses  white  and  red, 

And  the  sod  above  it  we  softly  pressed. 
"  Sleep  well,"  through  our  gathering  tears, 
we  said. 

But,  oh !    the  desolate  hours  we  spent 

In  the  silent  home  from  which  baby  went. 

We  missed  the  patter  of  little  feet, 
And  the  broken  music  of  baby  talk  ; 

We  were  lost  for  the  cares  that  had  been  so 

sweet, 
When  the  fearless  laddie  began  to  walk, 

And  scarce  could  feel  that  another  Hand 

Was  guiding  him  now  in  the  better  land. 

The  lonely  days,  and  the  lonely  nights  ; 

Had  they  ever  a  gain  our  fond  hearts  knew  ? 
Ah,  yes !    for  oft,  from  the  heavenly  heights, 

Came  echoes  floating  our  darkness  through  ; 
And  the  land  beyond  grew  near  and  bright, 
Where  our  beautiful  baby  lived  in  light. 
21 


And  our  lives  were  touched  by  a  holier  grace, 
And  each  to  each  was  bound  the  more, 

For  the  dream  in  our  souls  of  a  little  face, 
Waiting  for  us  on  the  farther  shore ; 

And  day  by  day  we  heard  the  chime 

Of  bells  beyond  this  passing  time. 

There  came  to  us,  too,  from  the  baby's  grave, 
A  tender  thought  for  those  who  wept, 

And  our  hands  were  swifter  to  bless  and  save, 
Our  hearts  in  yearning  love  were  kept ; 

We  were  fain  to  cure  each  bitter  ache, 

Or  ease  its  smart,  for  baby's  sake. 

And  so  we  have  learned  to  count  the  gain, 
Where  once  we  counted  alone  the  loss  ; 

And  so,  through  the  bittersweet  of  pain, 
Have  found  the  blessing  within  the  cross. 

"  Thank  God,"  we  cry,  with  reverent  breath, 

"  For  the  life  that  is  quickened  but  through 
death  !" 


THE  WIND  ACROSS   THE  WHEAT 

You  ask  me  for  the  sweetest  sound  mine 
ears  have  ever  heard  ? 

A  sweeter  than  the  ripples'  plash,  or  trilling 
of  a  bird, 

Than  tapping  of  the  rain-drops  upon  the  roof 
at  night, 

Than  the  sighing  of  the  pine-trees  on  yon 
der  mountain  height? 

And  I  tell  you,  these  are  tender,  yet  never 
quite  so  sweet 

As  the  murmur  and  the  cadence  of  the  wind 
across  the  wheat. 

Have  you   watched  the    golden  billows  in  a 

sunlit  sea  of  grain, 
Ere  yet  the  reaper  bound  the  sheaves,  to  fill 

the  creaking  wain? 
Have  you   thought   how  snow  and  tempest, 

and  the  bitter  wintry  cold, 
Were  but  the  guardian  angels,  the  next  year's 

bread  to  hold? 

23 


A   precious  thing,  unharmed   by  the  turmoil 

of  the  sky, 
Just  waiting,  growing,  silently,  until  the  storms 

went  by  ! 

Oh  !    have  you  lifted  up  your  heart,  to  Him 

who  loves  us  all, 
And  listens,  through  the  angel -songs,  if  but 

a  sparrow   fall  ? 
And  then,  thus  thinking  of  His  hand,  what 

symphony  so  sweet 
As  the  music  in  the  long  refrain,  the  wind 

across  the  wheat  ? 

It  hath  its  dulcet  echoes,  from  many  a  lullaby, 
Where  the    cradled   babe   is  hushed   beneath 

the  mother's  loving  eye. 
It  hath  its  heaven-promise,  as  sure  as  heaven's 

throne, 
That  He  who  sent  the  manna,  will  ever  feed 

His  own  ; 
And,   though   an   atom    only,  'mid    countless 

hosts  who  share 
The  Maker's  never-ceasing  watch,  the  Father's 

deathless  care, 
That  atom   is  as  dear  to  Him,  as   my  dear 

child  to  me  ; 
He  cannot   lose   me  from   my  place,  through 

all  eternity : 

24 


You  wonder,  when  it  sings  me  this,  there's 

nothing  half  so  sweet, 
Beneath    the    circling    planets,    as    the    wind 

across  the  wheat  ? 


THE  HELP  THAT  COMES  TOO  LATE 

'Tis  a  wearisome  world,  this  world  of  ours, 
With  its  tangles  small  and  great, 

Its   weeds  that  smother  the   springing  flow 
ers, 
And  its  hapless  strifes  with  fate  j 

But  the  darkest  day  of  its  desolate  days 
Sees  the  help  that  comes  too  late. 

Ah !   woe  for  the  word  that  is  never  said 

Till  the  ear  is  deaf  to  hear, 
And  woe  for  the  lack  to  the  fainting  head 

Of  the  ringing  shout  of  cheer  ; 
Ah  !    woe  for  the  laggard  feet  that  tread 

In  the  mournful  wake  of  the  bier. 

What  booteth  help  when  the  heart  is  numb  ? 

What  booteth  a  broken  spar 
Of  love  thrown  out  when  the  lips  are  dumb, 

And  life's  barque  drifted  far, 
Oh  !   far  and  fast  from  the  alien  past, 

Over  the  moaning  bar  ? 
26 


A  pitiful  thing  the  gift  to-day 
That  is  dross  and  nothing  worth, 

Though  if  it  had  come  but  yesterday, 
It  had  brimmed  with  sweet  the  earth  ; 

A  fading  rose  in  a  death-cold  hand, 
That  perished  in  want  and  dearth. 

Who  fain  would  help  in  this  world  of  ours, 
Where  sorrowful  steps  must  fall, 

Bring  help  in  time  to  the  waning  powers 
Ere  the  bier  is  spread  with  the  pall ; 

Nor  send  reserves  when  the  flags  are  furled, 
And  the  dead  beyond  your  call. 

For  baffling  most  in  this  dreary  world, 
With  its  tangles  small  and  great, 

Its  lonesome  nights  and  its  weary  days, 
And  its  struggles  forlorn  with  fate, 

Is  that  bitterest  grief,  too  deep  for  tears, 
Of  the  help  that  comes  too  late. 


WAITING   FOR   THE   ANGELS 

WAITING  through  days  of  fever, 
Waiting  through  nights  of  pain, 

For  the  waft  of  wings  at   the   portal, 
For  the  sound  of  songs  immortal, 
And  the  breaking  of  life's  long  chain. 

There   is  little  to  do  for  our  dear   one — 

Only  to  watch   and  pray — 

As  the  tide  is  outward  drifting, 
As  the  gates  of  heaven  are   lifting, 

And  its  gleam   is  on   her  way. 

The  tasks  that  so  often  taxed  her} 
The  children  she   held  so  dear, 

The   strain  of  the  coming   and  going, 
The  stress  of  the  mending  and  sewing, 
The  burden   of  many  a  year. 

Trouble   her  now  no  longer, 

She   is  past  the  fret  and  care. 

On  her  brow  is  the  angel's  token, 
The   look   of  a  peace  unbroken. 

She   was  never  before  so  fair. 
28 


You   see  she  is  waiting  the   angels, 
And  we — we   are  standing  apart. 

For  us  there   are   loss  and  sorrow  ; 

For  her  is  the  endless   morrow, 
And  the  reaping-time   of  the   heart. 


WHITTIER 

SEPTEMBER  7,  1892 

His  fourscore  years  and  five 

Are  gone,  like  a  tale  that  is  told. 

The  quick  tears  start,  there's  an  ache  at  the 

heart, 
For  we  never  thought  him  old. 

Straight  as  a  mountain  pine, 
With   the   mountain  eagle's  eye, 

With  the  hand-clasp  strong,  and  the  unhushed 

song, 
Was  it  time   for   him  to  die  ? 

Prophet  and  priest  he  stood 

In  the  storm  of  embattled   years ; 

The  broken  chain  was  his  harp's  refrain, 
And   the   peace  that  is  balm   for  tears. 

The  hills  and  the  valleys  knew 
The  poet  who  kept  their  tryst. 

To  our  common  life  and  our  daily  strife, 
He  brought  the  blessing  of  Christ. 
30 


And   we  never  thought  him  old, 

Though   his  locks  were   white  as   snow. 

O    heart   of  gold,  grown  suddenly  cold, 
It  was  not  time  to  go ! 


TENNYSON 

"  Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  tne ; 
A  nd  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar 
Wken  I  put  out  to  sea." 

THERE  was  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

O  singer  lost  from  sight, 
When  out  beyond  our  evening  star, 

Death  drifted  thee  to  light. 

Black  was  the  pilot  at  the  helm  ; 

Dark  gloomed  the  hither  shore  ; 
But  never  wave  could  overwhelm, 

The  land  that  gleamed  before. 

Beyond  these  voices  there  is  peace  ! 

Life  fills  thy  cup  this  day ! 
From  pain  and  weariness  surcease 

They  find  who  pass  this  way! 

Oh  !    laurelled  at  the  head  and  feet, 
We  cannot  call  thee  dead  ! 

Our  hearts  repeat  thy  music  sweet, 
And  we  are  comforted. 

32 


A   BALLAD   OF   MAY 

WE    were    ploughing   the   far  -  hill    meadow, 

Abner,  Reuben,  and  I, 
In   the   flush  of  the   sweet  May   morning, 

and  the  off-horse  balked  at  the  rise 
Midway  in  the  longest  furrow ;  and  I  patted 

and  coaxed  him  on  ; 

I  remember  the  scent  of  the  brown  earth, 
the  blue  of  the  bending  skies. 

Said  Abner  :    "  We'll   rest  for  the  nooning  ; 

Old  Don's  in  an  ugly  mood. 
No  wonder  he's  tired,  poor  fellow  ;  the  colt 

doesn't  do  his  share. 
I    know    how    a    horse   feels,  David,  with    a 

stubborn  drop  in  his  blood, 
When  his  mate  is  a  bit  of  a  shirk,  Dave. 
I  tell  you  it  isn't  fair !" 

I  was  ready  to  flare  in  a  moment ;  you  see, 

I  was  fond  of  the  colt. 
I  had  trained  him  myself.     He  was  flighty 

and  full  of  kittenish  pranks, 
c  33 


And  he  didn't  know,  and  /  didn't  know,  my 

dear  little  black  Ben  Bolt, 
How    grave    and    steady    he'd    grow    yet, 
trained  in  the  cavalry  ranks. 

For  swift  through   the   sweet   May   morning 

came  the  flying  thunder  of  hoofs, 
And   "  Dave  !    Dave !    Dave !"    called    my 

neighbor,  Jonathan  Bell. 
It  was  hurry  and  scurry  and  hasten,  "  Arm 

for  your  fields  and  your  roofs  !" 
And   I  left   the  boys   and  the   ploughing, 
and  galloped  away  pell-mell. 

Do  you  know  the  blue  Shenandoah,  with  its 

loops  and  twists  of  light, 
Its  foams  of  torrent,  its  gleams,  its  brawls, 
its  sheen  through  the  fields  of  wheat  ? 
All   through   our    mountain   valley  we   were 

up,  as  we  thought,  for  the  right, 

Our  hearts  and  our  wills  were  tempered  to 

the  glow  of  a  fierce  white-heat. 


The  bluecoats  were  swarming  near  us.     Over 

our  winding  ways 

Glittered  their  dark  battalions,  and  the  flag 
we  used  to  love 
34 


Flaunted  its  stern  defiance  through  the  grim 

and  passionate  days 

When  men  did  the  desperate  fighting,  and 
women  sought  God  above. 

Well,  it's  all  past !    Heaven  be  thanked,  boys. 

But  there's  never  a  Southern  May, 
Sweet  with  the  lilac  and  jasmine,  that  I  do 

not  live  again 
Through  the  anger  and  storm  and  madness, 

and  the  rollicking  times  and  gay, 
When  I  was  a  boy  on  my  black  Ben  Bolt, 
off  in  that  hot  campaign. 


I  am  glad  the  flag  of  my  fathers  still  waves 

o'er  my  native  land. 
And    that    grave  ?     That    my   little    maid 

Ethel  covers  with  flowers  to-day. 
Dont    laugh !      You    fellows    are    heartless. 

Yet  how  should  you  understand  ? 

That's    Ben  Bolt's  grave   in   the   meadow. 

We  buried  him  there  one  May. 

I'm  grizzled  and  tough  as   a  pine  knot,  and 

I  limp  a  little,  of  course. 
But    I'd   never   have    won   my  wife   there, 
and  the  children  on  my  knee 
35 


Would   have  called  some  other   man  father, 

but  for  the  brave  black  horse, 
Who   carried   me   safe    through    shot    and 
shell,  whatever  our  fate  might  be. 

Battle   and   march   and   ambush,  I    and    my 

black  Ben  Bolt, 
We  scrambled  it  through  together,  and  we 

both  went  back  to  the  plough, 
But  Abner  and  Rube   were    dead,  boys !      I 

tell  you  that  Morgan  colt 
Had  stuff  in  him  hard  to  beat,  and  I  wish 
he  were  living  now! 


THEN    AND     NOW 

G.  A.  R.-WASHINGTOX,  1892 

FROM  the  wide  and  wind-swept  prairies, 

From  the  rugged  sea-blown  coast, 
From  the  uplands  and  the  lowlands, 

They  thronged  in  a  mighty  host. 
Forth  from  the  towns  and  cities, 

With  the  speed  of  the  rushing  train, 
They  hurried,  the  dear  old  fellows, 

To  answer  the  roll  again. 

They  fell  into  line  and  column, 

Regiment  and  brigade, 
With  the  gallant  colors  streaming, 

And  the  fiery  music  played. 
And  they  marched  as  in  the  old  time, 

Though  here  was  the  tap  of  a  crutch, 
And  there  was  the  droop  of  an  empty  sleeve 

Tangling  the  heart  in  its  clutch. 

The  heaven  of  mid-September 

Beamed  over  them,  blue  and  bland, 

And  women  smiled  their  welcomes, 
And  children  waved  a  hand. 
37 


251448 


There  were  mirth  and  greetings  only 
In  the  wake  of  this  latest  camp, 

Though  the  death-thinned  ranks  remembered 
The  past  in  that  sturdy  tramp — 

Remembered  a  long  procession, 

Staggering,  sore  bespent, 
Back  from  a  hundred  battles, 

With  banners  grimed  and  rent. 
Boys  with  their  gaunt  pale  faces, 

The  friends  of  hunger  and  thirst ; 
Men  who   had  looked  through   the  gates   of 
hell 

And  dared  the  devil  his  worst. 

Up  from  the  Mississippi, 

From  the  flame-scarred  Georgian  track, 
From     the    Wilderness,    and    from    Gettys 
burg, 

Those  soldiers  came  toiling  back. 
Are  these  the  same,  one  marvels  ; 

Does  the  old  light  gleam  and  shine, 
As  they  follow  the  fife  and  bugle 

In  the  long,  unwavering  line  ? 

Aye,  verily  !     Here  are  the  comrades 
With  brown  heads  turned  to  gray, 

And  lint-white  locks  have  the  gray-beards, 
Strong  in  that  elder  day. 

38 


They  left  their  youth  behind  them 
In  the  tempest  of  years  agone, 

When  sweet  out  of  War's  rough  cradle 
Slipped  Peace  in  the  breaking  dawn. 

Hats  off!     There's  a  greater  army 

Unstirred  in  its  silent  sleep 
By  the  ponderous  tread  of  the  living 

And  the  cannons'  thunder  deep. 
An  army  that  keeps  its  muster 

On  stones  that  as  sentries  stand, 
With  the  names  of  tens  of  thousands, 

The  flower  of  all  the  land. 


The  winds  are  forever  chanting 

A  requiem  for  these  ; 
Brave  autumn  flaunts  their  banners 

In  the  flushing  maple-trees ; 
And  the  glad  birds,  winging  southward, 

Over  them  pause  and  rest, 
Dropping  a  song  for  love,  above 

The  flower  of  East  and  West. 


A  truce  to  memory's  dreaming! 

O  flag  that  we  live  to  serve  ; 
By  all  we  hold  most  holy, 

Never  from  thee  we'll  swerve  ! 
39 


Dear  flag  that  rallies  a  nation, 
A  mighty,  growing  host 

From  the  breezy,  rippling  prairies 
To  the  rugged  sea-blown  coast. 


THE   EVENING   LESSON 

IN  hands  that  are  gnarled  with  labor, 

And  swart  with  the  kiss  of  the  sun, 
She  is  holding  her  worn  old  Bible 

When  the  day  is  almost  done. 
And,  gazing  through  misty  glasses, 

For  her  eyes  are  growing  dim, 
She  thinks  of  the  Lord  who  has  led  her, 

And  the  way  she  has  walked  with  Him. 

The  hills  in  the  purple  distance 

Looked  over  her  childish  head: 
No  charm  from  their  brows  has  faded, 

No  tint  of  their  glory  fled. 
And  the  sweet  green-waving  meadows 

Through  the  long  years  reaped  and  sown, 
For  all  their  harvest  guerdons 

No  blight  of  age  have  known. 

But  she  can  scarce  remember, 

It  went  so  long  ago, 
The  time  of  the  tripping  footstep, 

And  the  heart's  exultant  glow. 


The  life  has  been  hard  and  bitter, 
With  its  tasks  and  dull  routine, 

Less  of  a  song  than  a  sermon, 
And  the  rests  so  few  between. 

And  yet,  she   has   walked  with    the   Mas 
ter  ; 

He  has  come  at  the  even-tide 
To  comfort  her  with  His  presence. 

He  has  lingered  oft  by  her  side 
In  the  hour  of  care  and  sorrow, 

And  the  burden  has  not  pressed 
So  heavily  at  His  whisper, 

"  Lo  !    I  will  give  you  rest !" 

She  read  just  now  in  the  chapter 

Where  her  ribbon  marker  lies, 
Of  the  flow  of  the  crystal  river, 

And  the  never-darkened  skies. 
In  her  there  is  less  of  longing 

For  the  golden-paven  street, 
Than  for  somewhere  a  little  refuge 

Low  at  the  Saviour's  feet. 

She  has  even  a  quiver  of  shyness 

For  the  angels  at  the  gate, 
And  the  splendid  stately  choirs 

At  the  great  white  throne  who  wait, 
42 


And  yearns  for  a  tiny  corner 

To  hide  herself  away, 
Till  she  feels  at  home  in  heaven, 

In  the  wonderful,  peaceful  day. 

Dear  soul,  trust  Him  who  loveth 

His  own  to  the  very  end, 
Who,  alike  for  earth  and  heaven, 

Is  thine  unfailing  Friend. 
He  will  lift  the  latest  burden, 

And  loose  thy  sandal-shoon, 
And  give  thee  youth  and  freedom 

In  His  own  good  time,  and  soon. 

Reading  the  evening  lesson 

In  a  simple,  childlike  way, 
She  gathers  strength  for  the  labor 

Of  each  revolving  day. 
She  never  has  time  in  the  morning, 

When  the  work  must  all  be  done, 
But  she  keeps  her  tryst  with  the  Master 

At  the  setting  of  the  sun. 


BELLS   IN   THE   DESERT 

ABOVE,  the  desert's  mocking  sky  ; 

Below,  the  desert's  sand  j 
No  palm's  green  fringe  to  rest  the  eye, 

No  fruit  to  fill   the  hand. 

But  on  the  pilgrim's  raptured  ear, 

In  liquid,  silvery  swells 
Oh,  faint  and  far,  yet  sweet  and  clear, 

The  sound  of  Sabbath  bells. 

Across  the  brooding  desert-gloom 
The  matchless  music  floats, 

The  fragrance  of  the  clover's  bloom 
Is  in  the  lingering  notes. 

Athwart  the  dark  sirocco's  drift 
The  thought  of  home  is  borne  ; 

Once  more  their  wings  the  robins  lift 
Above  the  springing  corn. 
44 


No  count  of  dreary  days  he  keeps, 

The  weary  leagues  along, 
When  lo  !    o'er  flesh  and  spirit  sweeps 

A  tide  of  hallowed  song. 

The  sweet  bells  chime  ;    his  sister  blends 

Her  voice  amid  their  waves, 
O'er  half  the  world  Balerma  sends 

The  call  of  Him  who  saves. 

A  space,  the  airy  music  dies, 

And  silence  reigns  supreme. 
Once  more,  the  sand,  the  empty  skies, 

The  fading  of  a  dream. 

Yet,  bravely  heartened,  on  he  goes, 

As  girded  on  with  strength, 
Nor  fears  the  rush  of  sudden  foes, 

Nor  dreads  the  journey's  length. 

The  thought  of  home,  the  vision  pure, 
Have  cheered  the  toilsome  way, 

And  nerved  the  pilgrim  to  endure 
The  trials  of  the  day. 

Ah !   comrades,  in  this  world  of  pain 
What  courage,  hope,  and  cheer, 

The  bells  of  heaven  with  sweet  refrain 
Sound  on  the  listening  ear. 

45 


We  hear  them  when  our  lips  are  dumb, 

When  life  is  dull  and  gray, 
God's  loving  messengers,  they  come, 

God's  wondrous  words  they  say. 

Perchance  the  hands  of  dear  ones  gone 
Touch  soft  the  vibrant  strings, 

Or,  angels  of  the  immortal  dawn, 
Draw  near  on  soundless  wings. 

To  us  alone  the  song  is  sent, 

The  wine  for  us  is  poured, 
We  rise,  and  forward  fare,  content — 

Our  eyes  have  seen  the  Lord. 


A   LESSON 

MY  little  laddie  with  the  earnest  eyes 

Had  toiled  an  hour  to  build  a  castle  fair; 

I  watched  each  bridge  and   tower  and  turret 

rise, 
Then  saw  him  slowly  make  a  winding  stair. 

Most  beautiful  the  castle  was  to  see ! 

A  wee  flag  floating  from  the  battlement  ! 
Alas!   my  hasty  touch!     Ah!    woe  is  me, 

The  whole  frail  fabric  into  ruins  went ! 

One  instant  anger  lit  the  childish  face, 
Quick  tears  sprang  up  to  quench  the  dark 
eyes  light  5 

And  then,  with  wonderful,  imperial  grace, 
He  curbed  that  fiery  spirit  in  my  sight. 

"  You  didn't  mean  to !     Never  mind,"  he  said. 

"  I'll  build  a  prettier  castle  by  and  by;" 
Then,  with  a  swift  shake  of  the  sunny  head, 

"  Why,  Dearie,  never  mind  !     You  shouldn't 
cry !" 


Brave  little  hero,  may  I  be  as  strong, 
As  swift  and  ready  in  self-mastery, 

Whene'er  in  this  world's   course   mistake  or 

wrong 
Upsets  some  castle  just  as  dear  to  me  ! 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 

WITH  summer  and  sun  behind  you, 

With  winter  and  shade  before, 
You  crowd  in  your  regal  splendor 

Through  the  autumn's  closing  door. 
White  as  the  snow  that  is  coming, 

Red  as  the  rose  that  is  gone, 
Gold  as  the  heart  of  the  lilies, 

Pink  as  the  flush  of  the  dawn. 
Confident,  winsome,  stately, 

You  throng  in  the  wane  of  the  year. 
Trooping  an  army  with  banners 

When  the  leafless  woods  are  sere. 

Sweet  is  your  breath  as  of  spices 

From  a  far  sea  island  blown  } 
Chaste  your  robes  -as  of  vestals 

Trimming  their  lamps  alone. 
Strong  are  your  hearts,  and  sturdy 

The  life  that  in  root  and  stem 
Smoulders  and  glows  till  it  sparkles 

In  each  flowery  diadem. 
)  49 


Nothing  of  bloom  and  odor 
Have  your  peerless  legions  lost, 

Marching  in  fervid  beauty 

To  challenge  the  death-white  frost. 

So  to  the  eye  of  sorrow 

Ye  bring  a  flicker  of  light ; 
The  cheek  that  was  wan  with  illness 

Smiles  at  your  faces  bright. 
The  children  laugh  in  greeting, 

And  the  dear  old  people  say, 
"  Here  are  the  self-same  darlings 

We  loved  in  our  own  young  day," 
As,  summer  and  sun  behind  you, 

Winter  and  shade  before, 
You  crowd  in  your  regal  splendor 

Through  the  autumn's  closing  door. 


IN   THE   BELFRY 

CLIMB  up  the  dusky  turret  stair 

Ere  yet  the  dawn  of  day, 
And  set  the  silent  bells  to  speech, 

That  near  and  far  away 
All  waking  things  may  hear  the  joy 

Pulsating  in  the  air, 
As  Freedom's  silver  chimes  exult 

For  Freedom  everywhere. 

Climb  up  the  narrow  turret  stair, 

Oh,  ringer,  haste  to  climb ! 
The  bells  shall  ring  for  answered  prayer 

Adown  the  aisles  of  Time. 
In  this  dear  Western  land  of  ours, 

Still  let  the  tale  be  told, 
That  Freedom's  self  we  dearer  prize 

Than  misers  prize  their  gold. 

Climb  up  the  haunted  belfry  stair  ! 

A  hundred  years  ago 
A  boy's  blithe  ringing  struck  the  peal 

That  challenged  friend  and  foe  ; 


The  flag  flung  out  its  vivid  folds, 
And  forth  from  many  a  spire 

The  answering  bells  in  music  broke 
To  greet  the  land's  desire. 

Climb  up  the  echoing  turret  stair, 

And  ring  the  bells  once  more. 
From  sea  to  sea,  from  lip  to  lip, 

Oh,  bid  the  joy  run  o'er ! 
Dear  land  that  Godward  looks  to-day, 

Dear  land  that  childward  bends, 
Thine  be  the  call  our  hearts  obey 

Full  gladly  till  life  ends. 


IN  HAMPTON  ROADS 

APRIL,  1893 

BLUE  sky  above,  blue  sea  below, 

A  rainbow  flutter  from  fort  and  fleet, 

Flashing  of  signals  to  and  fro, 

And  the  ocean  highway  a  thronging  street. 

Banners  flung  on  the  April  air, 

Thunder  of  cannon  in  blithe  salute, 

The  drum's  deep  note  and  the  trumpet's  blare, 
The  mellow  music  of  pipe  and  flute. 

Seafaring  men,  with  faces  tanned 

By  sun  and  tempest  and  windy  weather, 

A  chain  of  commerce  that  land  with  land 
Links  the  states  of  the  world  together. 

And  back  of  it  all,  to-day,  one  sees 
The  swart,  stern  brow  of  the  Genoese  ; 
And  under  it  all,  to  day,  one  hears 
The  diapason  of  time's  long  years. 

53 


FLOWERS  FOR   MEMORIAL    DAY 

COME  hither,  little  darling,  and  help  me  gather 

bloom — 
Great   roses,  soaked  with    sunshine,  and    the 

lilac's  purple  plume  $ 
For  the  banners  will  be  waving,  the   stormy 

drums  will  beat, 
And   the   tread   of  marching   regiments  will 

shake  the  listening  street ; 
And    you    will    clap    your    hands,   dear,   the 

world  will   be  so  gay, 
The  shops   and   schools   all   closed   in  town, 

this  bright  Memorial  Day. 

You  ask  what  'tis  about,  dear,  and  why  we 
pick  the  flowers, 

And    break    the    long,  green    branches,  dew- 
gemmed  in  fragrant  showers  ; 

Why   we   always    take   the   same   path,  and 
seek  the  solemn  place 

Where  rows  and  rows  of  narrow  graves  are 
marshalled  in  one  space, 
54 


As  if  a  regiment  of  dead  were  sleeping  there 
together, 

As  many  a  time  in  life  they  slept,  unheed 
ing  wind  or  weather. 

Hear    this,    my    bonny    darling ;    you're    old 

enough  to  know 
That  once  these  sleeping  soldiers  grimly  faced 

a   living  foe. 
My  father  was  among  them,  and   I,  a  child 

like  you, 
Gave  him  a  good-bye    kiss,  dear,  when   he 

wore  our  country's  blue. 
He   caught   me   in   his   arms,  dear,   and   his 

bearded  cheek  was  wet  ; 
That    parting    kiss    and   clasp,    my   child,    I 

never  could  forget. 
He  loved  these  dear  spring  flowers,  the  lilacs 

best  of  all, 
And  we'll  cover  up   his  bed  with   them — a 

royal  purple  pall. 

Halt !     Why,  the  men  are  coming  ;  they  are 
just  beyond  the  door. 

Run  out,  my  little  one,  and  strew  the  flowers 
their  feet  before, 

And  wave  your  dimpled  hand,  dear,  to  the 
banner  of  the  stars. 

There  is  no  flag  so  splendid,  worth  the  heart 
aches  and  the  scars, 
55 


Worth   all    it  cost  to  save  it,  worth    all  our 

love   and  pride — 
The    banner    brave    men    live    for,    and    tor 

which  brave  men  died. 

And  oft   as   spring   returns,  dear,  and  decks 

the  smiling   land, 
Till  the  blossoms  break  and  ripple,  like  the 

foam  upon  the  strand, 
Whatever   else    we   do,  dear,  whatever    leave 

undone, 
We'll  keep  in  sacred  memory  the  men  whose 

fields  are   won. 
We'll    ask    our    God    to   make    us    as    pure 

and  brave  as  they 
On  whose  green  graves  we  scatter  bloom  this 

fair  Memorial   Day. 


CROSSING   THE    DOWN-TOWN 
FERRIES   . 

CROSSING  the  down-town  ferries, 

I  challenge  a  braver  sight 
Than  the  throngs  of  working-people 

Homeward  faring  at  night. 
Never  a  drum  before  them, 

Never  a  banner  above, 
But  they  march  to  soundless  music 

Under  the  flag  of  love. 

There  are  men  with  grimy  faces 

And  coats  that  are  out  of  date, 
Women  whose  pallid  lips  and  cheeks 

Tell  the  dreary  struggle  with  fate. 
But  oh  !    the  cheery  courage 

And  the  eyes  with  light  aglow 
As  over  the  down-town  ferries 

These  toilers  come  and  go! 

They  are  working  for  wife  and  babies, 
For  a  mother  bent  and  gray, 

Or  a  sister  bound  to  a  weary  couch, 
With  only  the  strength  to  pray. 
57 


Working  for  honest  wages 

To  pay  for  the  bread  they  eat, 

Or  to  buy  the  children's  school-books, 
And  shoes  for  the  children's  feet. 

Crossing  the  down-town  ferries 

Daily  at  set  of  sun, 
You  may  meet  the  crowds  of  toilers 

Whose  long  day's  work  is  done. 
You  know  what  a  shout  of  greeting 

They'll  hear  when  they  lift  the  latch- 
A  shout  the  angels  listen  for, 

And  pause  in  their  songs  to  catch. 

Who  does  not  thrill  with  pleasure 

As  the  brave  procession  comes, 
Needing  no  rally  of  bugles, 

Nor  beat  of  strenuous  drums  ? 
Though  a  host  may  press  anear  them 

Who  neither  toil  nor  spin, 
Nor  theirs  to  wear  the  laurels 

The  lowlier  laborers  win. 


II 
LOOKING    UPWARD 


TWO    OR   THREE 

THERE  were  only  two  or  three  of  us, 

Who  came  to  the  place  of  prayer, 
Came  in  the  teeth  of  a  driving  storm, 

But  for  that  we  did  not  care, 
Since,  after  our  hymns  of  praise  had  risen, 

And  our  earnest  prayers  were  said, 
The  Master  Himself  was  present  there, 

And  gave  us  the  living  bread. 

We  knew  His  look  in  our  leader's  face, 

So  rapt,  and  glad,  and  free  5  * 

We  felt  His  touch  when  our  heads  were  bowed, 

We  heard  His  "  Come  to  Me  !" 
Nobody  saw  Him  lift  the  latch, 

And  none  unbarred  the  door  5 
But  "  Peace "  was  His  token  to  every  heart, 

And  how  could  we  ask  for  more  ? 

Each  of  us  felt  the  load  of  sin 

From  the  weary  shoulder  fall  ; 
Each  of  us  dropped  the  load  of  care, 

And  the  grief  that  was  like  a  pall  ; 
6r 


And  over  our  spirits  a  blessed  calm 

Swept  in  from  the  jasper  sea, 
And  strength  was  ours  for  toil  and  strife 

In  the  days  that  were  thence  to  be. 

It  was  only  a  handful  gathered  in 

To  the  little  place  of  prayer  ; 
Outside  were  struggle  and  pain  and  sin, 

But  the  Lord  Himself  was  there  j 
He  came  to  redeem  the  pledge  He  gave — 

Wherever  His  loved  ones  be, 
To  stand  Himself  in  the  midst  of  them, 

Though  they  count  but  two  or  three. 

And  forth  we  fared  in  the  bitter  rain, 

And  our  hearts  had  grown  so  warm 
It  seemed  like  the  pelting  of  summer  flowers, 

And  not  like  the  crash  of  a  storm. 
"  'Twas  a  time  of  the  dearest  privilege 

Of  the  Lord's  right  hand,"  we  said, 
As  we  thought  how  Jesus  Himself  had  come 

To  feed  us  with  living  bread. 


TE   DEUM   LAUDAMUS 

FOR  our  dear  ones  safe  on  the  other  side, 

We  give  Thee  praise,  O  Lord  ! 
Though  our  hearts  are  sore  for  prayers  denied, 

And  our  songs  have  a  broken  chord. 
Never  the  stain  of  shame  or  sin, 

Never  the  blight  of  pain, 
Shall  come  to  the  blest  who  have  entered  in, 

Where  only  love  doth  reign. 

Entered  in  to  the  hall  of  the  feast, 

Through  the  gates  of  jasper  clear ; 
Where  the  dear   Lord's  hand  shall  lead   the 
least, 

And  Himself  shall  to  all  be  near. 
Entered  in,  where  the  deathless  life 

Into  every  soul  is  poured. 
Entered,  where  never  toil  or  strife 

Is  seen  in  the  light  of  the  Lord.    • 

Some,  whom  we  lost  in  the  long  ago, 
Are  waiting  to  greet  us  there ; 
63 


Forgotten  the  burden  of  mortal  woe, 

Untasted  the  earth's  despair. 
Oh !   well  when  we  kneel  at  the  Master's  feet, 

May  we  thank  His  tender  love, 
That  saved  the  bitter  and  gave  the  sweet, 

In  the  cup  they  quaff  above. 

But  thanks  and  praise  for  the  dear  ones  gone 

To  dwell  in  the  peace  of  God, 
No  longer  weary,  or  spent,  or  lone, 

No  longer  under  the  rod  ; 
Learning  and  growing  day  by  day 

Where  they  count  not  life  by  days, 
Treading  forever  the  upward  way — 

For  these  let  us  offer  praise. 

Swiftly  and  surely  the  hour  will  come, 

When,  dropping  the  load  of  care, 
We,  too,  shall  wing  to  the  better  home, 

And  be  found  of  the  loved  ones  there. 
For  the  family  life,  and  the  family  love, 

Are  safe  in  the  Father's  thought ; 
And  one  and  all,  to  His  house  above, 

Shall  His  ransomed  at  last  be  brought. 


HOW  LONG? 

SOME  days  when  the  sun  is  brightest, 

And  the  wind  is  soft  and  sweet, 
When  the  ripples  feather  the  lightest 

Over  the  ripened  wheat  ,• 
When  the  world  is  fullest  of  music, 

And  life  is  thrilled  with  song, 
The  cry  of  my  soul  is  lifted, 

"  How  long,  O  Lord  !    how  long  ?" 

For  against  the  rich,  blithe  summer 

The  pain  of  the  world  is  set ; 
I  hear  the  moans  of  the  shipwrecked; 

And  the  groans  of  vain  regret, 
The  wail  of  the  heavy-hearted, 

The  grief  of  the  one  gone  wrong, 
And  the  cry  of  my  soul  is  lifted, 

"  How  long,  O  Lord !    how  long  ?" 

Then,  stilling  my  thoughts  that  struggle, 
And  bidding  the  tumult  cease, 

As  sweet  as  an  angel's  whisper, 
Comes  a  blessed  word  of  peace, 

5  65 


And  the  Lord  Himself  says,  gently  : 
"  Hush  not  thy  thankful  song, 

I  am  yet  the  Father  in  heaven, 

And  I  list  to  thy  plaint,  '  How  long  ?' 

"  In  the  day  of  the  years  eternal, 

Beginning  and  end  I  see, 
The  world  is  glad  and  sorrowful  both, 

And  the  world  is  safe  with  Me. 
The  trouble  and  loss  shall  vanish  ; 

Believe,  and  await  the  song, 
Untouched  by  the  minor  of  discord, 

Where  the  ransomed  legions  throng.1' 


GOD'S   APPOINTMENTS 

(THIS  thing  on  which  thy  heart  was  set,  this 

thing  that  cannot  be, 
This   weary,  disappointing   day,  that   dawns, 

my  friend,  for  thee  ; — 
Be  comforted  ;   God   knoweth  best,  the  God 

whose  name  is  Love, 
Whose  tender  care   is  evermore  our  passing 

lives  above. 
He  sends  thee  disappointment  ?      Well,  then, 

take  it  from  His  hand. 
^  Shall  God's  appointment  seem  less  good  than 

what  thyself  had  planned  ? 

/"Twas  in  thy  mind  to  go  abroad.      He  bids 

thee  stay  at  home  ? 
Oh  !   happy  home  ;  thrice  happy  if  to  it  thy 

guest  He  come. 
'Twas  in  thy  mind  thy  friend  to  see.      The 

Lord  says,  "  Nay,  not  yet." 
Be  confident ;  the  meeting-time  thy  Lord  will 
not  forget. 

6? 


"Twas   in  thy  mind  to  work  tor  Him.     His 

will  is,  "  Child,  sit  still  ;" 
And  surely  'tis  thy  blessedness  to   mind  the 

Master's  will. 
Accept   thy   disappointment,  friend,  thy    gift 

from  God's  own  hand. 
Shall  God's  appointment  seem  less  good  than 

what  thyself  had  planned  ? 

So,  day  by  day  and  step  by  step,  sustain  thy 

failing  strength, 
From    strength    to    strength,  indeed,  go    on 

through  all  the  journey's  length. 
God  bids  thee   tarry  now  and  then,  forbear 

the  weak  complaint  ; 

God's  leisure  brings  the  weary  rest,  and  cor 
dial  gives  the  faint. 
God  bids  thee   labor,  and  the  place  is  thick 

with  thorn  and  brier  ; 
But  He  will  share  the  hardest  task,  until  He 

calls  thee  higher. 
So  take  each   disappointment,  friend  ;    'tis  at 

thy  Lord's  command ! 
Shall  God's  appointment  seem  less  good  than 

what  thyself  had  planned  ? 


A   KING'S    MESSENGER 

"THE  King  will  send  a  messenger;  set  thou 

thy  house  in  state, 
And  listening  for  His  high  behests,  do  thou 

in  patience  wait." 
So  ran  the  letter  that   she  read,  between  the 

dawn  and  dark, 
And  her  heart  went  forth   in   answer  swift, 

the  day  of  days  to  mark. 


Soon  the  house  was  swept  and  garnished,  and 

she  filled  each  space  with  flowers, 
And,  singing,  to  and  fro  she  passed,  and  chid 

the  laggard  hours  ; 
Then  her  board  was  spread  for  feasting,  and 

her  flagons  brimmed  with  wine, 
For    naught   could   be    too    rich    or   rare    to 

please  the  guest  Divine. 


"  The   King  will    send  a  messenger,  a   mes 
senger  who  stands 

Full  often  where  he   takes  the  gifts  of  love 
from  royal  hands. 
69 


The  King  hath  gift  and  grace  for  thee,  have 

thou  thy  heart  prepared  ; 
The  precious  treasure  meant  for  tbee,  no  other 

soul  hath  shared." 


So  came  the  second  missive,  between  the  stars 

that  burn, 
The  steadfast  warders  of  the  night,  each  in 

its  ordered  turn  ; 
And  she  set  her  heart  in  order,  she  searched 

her  soul  to  see 
If  any  evil  thing  by  chance  in  lurking  haunt 

might  be. 


She  knelt  in  lowly  vigil,  and  her  pleading 
prayer  went  forth, 

But  came  apace  no  messenger  from  South 
land  or  from  North. 

She  questioned  Life,  she  questioned  Death,  she 
asked  all  mystery, 

But  none  could  tell  her  of  the  gift  that  erst 
her  own  would  be. 


And  while  she   waited,  ill   at  ease,  the  song 

died  on  her  lips, 
The  flowers  faded,  and  the  light  of  noonday 

knew  eclipse  j 

70 


A  shadow  crept  athwart  the  floor,  the   door 

swung  open  wide, 
And  the  messenger  the  King  had  sent  was 

standing  at  her  side. 

Alas  !  That  messenger  had  brought  a  gleam 
ing  sword  of  woe, 

That  reft  the  golden  links  of  love,  and  laid 
the  dearest  low. 

She  shivered,  mute  and  desolate,  crushed  under 
blinding  pain ; 

Could  this  be  Heaven's  messenger,  to  cleave 
her  life  in  twain  ? 


Then  the  day  grew  as  the  midnight,  and  the 

midnight  as  the  day  ,• 
Nor  sun  nor  stars  shone  over   her,  upon  the 

weary  way. 
Men  marked  the  furrowing  of  her  brow,  the 

blanching  of  her  hair, 
And  the  shadow  deep  and  deeper  grew,  till 

night  lay  everywhere. 


Then   slowly   came   a   marvel,  a   miracle  to 

see, 
For   out    of   gloom    a    wondrous    light    was 

born  her  own  to  be. 


There    was  knowledge  of  all    suffering,  that 

through  the  torpor  stole, 
Until  she  learned  the  secret  of  the  balm  that 

maketh  whole. 


Then  the  shadow  changed  to  glory,  and  be 
hold  !  an  angel  form, 

With  a  radiance  like  the  splendor  of  the 
sunlight  after  storm ! 

And  ere  she  knew  it  Heaven  had  come  within 
her  home's  small  space, 

To  make,  oh  !  strange,  sweet  wonder,  there  a 
hallowed  dwelling-place. 

And  now  the  flowers  are  blooming,  and  again 

she  sings  by  day, 
And   she  feels   the  angels  near  her  when  at 

eve  she  kneels  to  pray. 
She  shall  find  the  dear  lost  darlings,  she  will 

know  them  as  they  stand, 
Serene  and   full    of  gladness,  in   the    blessed 

better  land. 


The  King  did  send  a  messenger,  and  Sorrow 

was  his  name, 
And  in  his  mighty  hand  he  bore  a  sword  of 

smiting  flame. 

72 


Bat  the  sword  was  wreathed  with  lilies,  and 

they  will  not  fade  away, 
For    they  were   sown  in   gardens   where  the 

flowers  bloom  for  aye. 


THE   CITY   OF  GOD 

FOUR  square  it  lies,  with  walls  of  gleaming 

pearl 

And  gates  that  are  not  shut  at  all  by  day: 
There  evermore  their  wings  the  storm  winds 

furl, 

And  night  falls  not  upon  the  shining  way 
Up  which   by  twos  and  threes,  and  in  great 

throngs, 

The  happy  people  tread,  whose  mortal  road 
Led   straight   to   that   fair    home   of  endless 

songs, 
The  city,  beautiful  and  vast,  of  God. 

Eye   hath  not  seen,  ear   hath  not  heard,  the 

j°y, 

The  light,  the  bloom  of  that  sweet  dwell 
ing-place, 

Where  praise  is  aye  the  rapturous  employ 
Of  those   who  there  behold   God's   loving 
face. 

74 


Here,  fretted  by  so  many  a  tedious  care, 
And  bowed  by  burdens  on  the  weary  road, 

We  cannot  dream  of  all  the  glory  there, 
In  that  bright  city,  beautiful,  of  God. 

There  some  have  waited  for  our  coming  long, 

Blown  thither  on  the  mystic  tide  of  death, 
They  catch   some   fragments  of  our   broken 
song, 

The  while  the  eternal  years  are  as  a  breath. 
There  we  shall  go  one  gladsome  day  of  days, 

And  drop  forever  every  cumbering  load, 
And   we    shall    view,   undimmed    by    earth's 
low  haze, 

The  city,  beautiful  and  vast,  of  God. 

In  that  great  city  we  shall  see  the  King, 

And  tell  Him  how  He  took  us  by  the  hand 
And  let  us,  in  our  weakness,  drag  and  cling, 

As  children  when  they  do  not  understand, 
Yet  with    the   mother  walk  as  night  comes 
on, 

And  wish  that  home  were  on  some  smooth 
er  road. 
Oh,  with  what  pleasure  shall  we  look  upon 

Our  Saviour  in  the  city  of  our  God ! 


A   SONG   OF  SUMMER 

THE  ships  glide  in  at  the  harbor's  mouth, 

And  the  ships  sail  out  to  sea, 
And  the  wind  that  sweeps  from   the  sunny 
South, 

It  is  sweet  as  sweet  can  be. 
There's  a  world  of  toil  and  a  world  of  pains, 

There's  a  world  of  trouble  and  care, 
But  oh,  in  a  world  where  our  Father  reigns, 

There  is  gladness  everywhere  ! 

The  harvest  waves  in  the  breezy  mom, 

And  the  men  go  forth  to  reap  ; 
The  fulness  comes  to  the  tasselled  corn, 

Whether  we  walce  or  sleep. 
And  far  on  the  hills  by  feet  untrod, 

There  are  blossoms  that  scent  the  air, 
For  oh,  in  this  world  of  our  Father,  God, 

There  is  beauty  everywhere  ! 

The  breath  grows  faint  on  the  dying  lips, 

And  the  weary  hands  lie  still. 
Our  life  is  dimmed  by  the  grief-eclipse, 

But  we  rest  on  the  Father's  will. 
76 


A  world  of  parting,  a  world  of  tears, 

Yet  we  sink  not  in  despair, 
For  oh,  in  the  midst  of  the  mournful  years, 

There  is  comfort  everywhere  ! 

The  babe  lies  soft  on  the  mother's  breast, 

And  the  tide  of  joy  flows  in. 
He  giveth,  He  taketh,  He  knoweth  best, 

The  Lord  to  whose  home  we  win. 
And  oh,  when  the  soul  is  with  trials  tossed, 

There  is  help  in  the  lifted  prayer ! 
For  never  a  soul  that  He  loves  is  lost, 

And  our  Father  is  everywhere. 

The  ships  sail  over  the  harbor  bar 

Away  and  away  to  sea. 
The  ships  sail  in  with  the  evening  star 

To  the  port  where  no  tempests  be. 
The  harvests  wave  on  the  summer  hills, 

And  the  bands  go  forth  to  reap, 
And  all  is  right,  as  our  Father  wills, 

Whether  we  wake  or  sleep. 


A  DAY  OF  THE   LORD 

IT  was  not  a  day  of  feasting, 

Nor  a  day  of  the  brimming  cup  ; 
There  were  bitter  drops  in  the  fountain 

Of  life  as  it  bubbled  up, 
And  over  the  toilsome  hours 

Were  sorrow  and  weakness  poured, 
Yet  I  said  "  Amen,"  when  night  came  ; 

It  had  been  a  day  of  the  Lord. 

A  day  of  His  sweetest  whispers, 

In  the  hush  of  the  tempest's  whirl  ; 
A  day  when  the  Master's  blessing 

Was  pure  in  my  hand  as  a  pearl. 
A  day  when,  under  orders, 

I  was  fettered,  yet  was  free  ; 
A  day  of  strife  and  triumph, 

A  day  of  the  Lord  to  me. 

And  my  head  as  it  touched  the  pillow, 
When  the  darkness  gathered  deep, 

Was  soothed  at  the  thought  of  taking 
The  gift  of  childlike  sleep  j 

78 


For  what  were  burdens  carried, 

And  what  was  the  foeman's  sword, 

To  one  who  had  fought  and  conquered 
In  a  blessed  day  of  the  Lord  ? 


THE    INVISIBLE    GUEST 

-* 
The  whole  family  in  heaven  and  on  earth. — Ef>h.  Hi.  15. 

THE  children  gather  the  table  round, 

And  this  is  rosy  and  that  is  fair  ; 
No  dearer  group  in  the  land  is  found, 

With  their  laughing  eyes  and  their  golden 

hair. 
In  its  innocent  freedom  the  household  mirth 

Ripples  along  in  a  sparkling  tide, 
And  the  ruddy  cheer  of  the  firelit  hearth 

Streams  o'er  the  snow  on  the  highway  side. 

But    the    mother    turns    from    the    curtained 
pane, 

And,  counting  her  children  one  by  one, 
Sees  the  child  who  will  never  come  back  again, 

Just  as  if  she  had  never  gone. 
And  between  her  sisters  the  grave,  sweet  face, 

A  lingering  smile  in  the  lovely  eyes, 
Is  lighting  the  mother's  shadowed  place 

With  the  wonderful  glory  of  Paradise. 
80 


Only  a  tender  fancy,  wrought 

Of  tissues  a  mother's  longing  weaves  ? 
Only  a  picture  of  memory  brought 

From  under  the  last  year's  withered  leaves  ? 
/  like  to  think  that  the  Father's  love, 

Keeping  us  all  in  its  hallowed  care, 
Sent  that  sweet  waft  from  the  home  above 

To  comfort  the  mother  mourning  there. 

She  mused  but  now  of  the  little  mound, 

A  gray-green  scar  on  the  furrowed  turf, 
The  white  drifts  heaping  its  loneness  round, 

Tumbled  and  broken  like  frozen  surf, 
And    the    old    pain    woke  j    yet    her    gentle 
thought 

Was  not  to  silence  the  children's  glee, 
When  into  her  spirit's  depth  was  brought 

A  word  triumphant :  "  Lord,  with  Thee, 

"  Dear  Lord,  with  Thee  is  my  treasure  kept, 

Safe  from  the  storm  which  sweeps  the  wild, 

At  home  with  Thee,  for  in  Thee  she  slept, 

And  my  Saviour's  arms  enfold  my  child." 

How  many  who  think  of  the  dear  ones  gone, 

Thus  lift  the  heart  to  the  better  land — 
Thus   wait    through    the   night    till    the  new 

day's  dawn, 
In  the   Presence  where  they  and  we  shall 

stand. 
F  81 


Their  names  are  starred  on  the  houshold  roll  ,• 

They  mingle  not  in  the  household  life  ; 
Yet — living  soul  unto  living  soul — 

They  whisper  peace  to  our  weary  strife. 
Not  theirs  to  struggle  for  daily  bread, 

To  join  the  search  for  the  fleeting  gold  5 
But  not  a  pulse  of  their  love  is  dead, 

Nor  ever  a  thought  they  send  us  cold. 

Into  our  gay  and  festal  days, 

As  into  days  that  are  dull  and  gray, 
They  drop  the  sweets  of  the  endless  praise, 

Which    thrills    in    the    place    where    their 

angels  stay. 

And  what  though  sometimes  the  tear-drops 
start, 

As  the  haunting  footsteps  go  and  come  ! 
Their  memory  hallows  the  trusting  heart, 

And  bids  its  murmur  of  loss  be  dumb. 


THEY   NEITHER  TOIL   NOR   SPIN 

THEY  neither  toil  nor  spin  ;   they  wear 
Their  loveliness  without  a  care  ; 

As  pure  as  when  the  Master's  feet 
Were  set  amid  their  perfume  sweet. 

The  summer  hills  rejoice  to  see 
Their  carven  censers  swinging  free. 

They  wait  within  the  gates  of  dawn 
Till  all  the  watching  stars  are  gone, 

Then  open  cups  of  honey-dew, 
To  greet  the  morn's  returning  hue. 

Oh  fair,  wise  virgins,  clothed  in  white  ; 
Oh  lilies,  fresh  from  looms  of  light, 

I  dearly  love  you,  for  the  word 
That  stars  you,  noted  of  the  Lord. 

83 


I  love  you  when,  in  gold  and  red, 
The  sunset  colors  o'er  you  spread  ; 

Or  when,  like  fairy  sails  of  snow, 
The  river  rocks  you  to  and  fro. 

You  are  the  Master's  flowers  to  me  : 
His  smile  upon  your  grace  I  see. 

My  transient  discontents  I  hush, 
If  but  my  garment's  hem  ye  brush. 

And  everywhere  your  fragrance  brings 
This  message  from  the  King  of  Kings: 

"  We  neither  toil  nor  spin.     And  ye, 
Who  spin  so  long  and  wearily, 

"  Who  toil  amid  earth's  grime  and  dust, 
Behold — a  hallowed  arc  of  trust. 

"  Oh,  pause  and  hear  the  Father  say 
His  angels  are  your  guides  to-day ! 

"  While  worlds  in  matchless  order  move, 
Ye  shall  not  slip  from  sovereign  love  j 

"For  He  who  bids  the  planets  sweep, 
Cares  for  the  tiniest  babe  asleep." 

84 


THE   CORE   OF  THE  HOUSE 

THE  core  of  the  house,  the  dearest  place,  the 

one  that  we  all  love  best, 
Holding  it  close  in  our  heart  of  hearts,  for 

its  comfort  and  its  rest, 
Is  never  the  place  where  strangers  come,  nor 

yet  where  friends  are  met, 
Is  never  the  stately  drawing-room,  where  our 

treasured  things  are  set. 
Oh,  dearer  far,  as  the  time  recedes  in  a  dream 

of  colors  dim, 
Breathing  across  our  stormy  moods   like  the 

echo  of  a  hymn, 
Forever  our  own,  and  only  ours,  and  pure  as 

a  rose  in  bloom, 
Is  the  centre  and  soul  of  the  old  home  nest, 

the  mother's  darling  room. 

We  flew  to   its  arms  when  we  rushed   from 
school,  with  a  thousand  things  to  tell ; 

Our  mother  was    always  waiting    there,  had 
the  day  gone  ill  or  well. 
85 


No  other  pillow  was  quite  so  cool,  under  an 

aching  head, 
As  soft  to  our  fevered  childish  cheek,  as  the 

pillow  on  mother's  bed. 
Sitting  so  safely  at  her  feet,  when  the  dewy 

dusk  drew  nigh, 
We  watched  for  the  angels  to  light  the  lamps 

in  the  solemn  evening  sky. 
Tiny  hands  folded,  there  we  knelt,  to  lisp  the 

nightly  prayer, 
Learning   to  cast   on  the   Loving  One   early 

our  load  of  care. 
Whatever   the  world   has    brought  us   since, 

yet,  pure  as  a  rose  in  bloom, 
Is  the  thought  we   keep  of  the   core  of  the 

home,  the  mother's  darling  room. 

We  think  of  it  oft  in  the  glare  and   heat  of 

our  lifetime's  later  day, 
Around  our  steps  when  the  wild  spray  beats, 

and  the  mirk  is  gathering  gray. 
As  once  to  the  altar's   foot  they  ran  whom 

the  menacing  foe  pursued, 
We  turn  to  the  still  and  sacred  place  where 

a  foe  may  never  intrude, 
And  there,  in  the  hush  of  remembered  hours, 

our  failing  souls  grow  strong, 
And  gird  themselves  anew  for   the   fray,  the 

battle  of  right  and  wrong, 
86 


Behind  us  ever  the  hallowed  thought,  as  pure 

as  a  rose  in  bloom, 
Of  the    happiest  place   in  all   the  earth,  the 

mother's  darling  room. 

WeVe  not  forgotten  the  fragrant  sheaves  of 
the  lilacs  at  the  door, 

Nor  the  ladder  of  sunbeams  lying  prone  on 
the  shining  morning  floor. 

WeVe  not  forgotten  the  robin's  tap  at  the 
ever  friendly  pane, 

Nor  the  lilt  of  the  little  brook  outside,  troll 
ing  its  gay  refrain. 

How  it  haunts  us  yet,  in  the  tender  hour  of 
the  sunset's  fading  blush, 

The  vesper-song,  so  silvery  clear,  of  the  hid 
den  hermit-thrush  ! 

All  sweetest  of  sound  and  scent  is  blent, 
when,  pure  as  a  rose  in  bloom, 

We  think  of  the  spot  loved  best  in  life,  the 
mother's  darling  room. 

Holding  us  close  to  our  best  in  life,  keeping 

us  back  from  sin, 
Folding  us  yet  to  her  faithful   breast,  oft  as 

a  prize  we  win, 
The  mother  who  left  us  here  alone  to  battle 

with  care  and  strife 
Is   the   guardian   angel   who   leads  us   on   to 

the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  life. 
87 


Her  smile  from  the  heights  we  hope,  to  gain 

is  an  ever-beckoning  lure  ; 
We  catch    her   look,    when  our  pulses  faint, 

nerving  us  to  endure. 
Others  may  dwell  where  once  she  dwelt,  and 

the  home  be  ours  no  more, 
But   the   thought   of  her   is   a   sacred    spell, 

never  its  magic  o'er. 
We're   truer   and    stronger    and    braver    yet, 

that,  pure  as  a  rose  in  bloom, 
Back  of  all  struggle,  a  heart  of  peace,  is  the 

mother's  darling  room. 


THE   CHILD   AT   THE   GATE 

'TWAS  a  little  faint  tap  at  the  golden  gate 
And  St.  Peter  came  with  the  key, 

For  never  in  heaven  is  soon  or  late 
Whoever  may  knocking  be. 

And  all  in  a  rift  of  the  morning  star 

A  small  child  waited  there, 
On  tiptoe  touching  the  jewelled  bar 

With  the  dew-drops  caught  in  her  hair. 

A  mither-bairn  who  had  never  known 

Aught  save  the  tenderest  care  ; 
She  had  fared  to  the  heavenly  land  alone, 

As  the  souls  of  all  must  fare. 

The  good  Saint  opened  wide  the  door, 
"  Come  in,  there  is  naught  to  fear, 

You  have  done  with  trouble  forever  more 
Oh !    little  one,  safe  and  here. 

"  Now  enter  in  where  the  children  play, 
And  the  dear  Lord  smiles  to  see 


Their  guileless  mirth  as  He  did  in  the  day 
When  He  walked  in  Galilee." 

A  soft  wind  stirred  in  the  lily  beds, 
The  children  paused  in  their  play, 

And  bent  the  ranks  of  their  flaxen  heads, 
As  children  in  church  who  pray. 

Then  One  drew  near  with  the  brooding  eyes 
That  are  homes  of  love  unpriced  ; 

And  the  little  soul  looked  up,  trustful,  wise, 
Into  the  Face  of  Christ. 

Across  the  meadows  she  went  with  Him, 
And  He  held  her  fast  by  the  hand  j 

And  He  gave  her  drink  from  the  cups  that 

brim 
With  the  sweet  of  the  deathless  hand. 

Oh  !    if  the  mother  who  waked  and  wept, 

By  a  cradle's  empty  space, 
Had  dreamed  how  Love  had  her  treasure  kept 

In  the  dear  Lord's  dwelling-place, 

She  would  never  have  mourned  so  bitterly, 

Nor  found  it  so  hard  to  wait, 
Till  the  good  St.  Peter  should  turn  the   key 

For  her,  in  the  golden  gate. 


OUR   BROKEN   DAYS 

SHALL  we  have  days  unbroken, 

Nay,  more,  an  endless  day, 
Where  ne'er  a  harsh  word  spoken 

Shall  cloud  our  onward  way, 
Where  never  hope  shall  perish, 

Nor  ever  grief  shall  moan, 
Where  all  our  fond  hearts  cherish 

Shall  aye  abide  our  own  ? 

Oh  !   peace  for  which  in  yearning 

Our  wearied  spirits  wait, 
Oh  !    love  whose  fullest  learning 

No  dear  desire  shall  sate, 
Nor  eye  nor  ear  hath  measured 

The  glory  and  the  praise, 
Which  God  for  us  hath  treasured 

Beyond  these  broken  days. 

Chill  days  when  pulses  languish, 
And  mists  of  life  hang  low, 

Dark  days  whose  load  of  anguish 
Rolls  on  with  sluggish  flow, 


And  busy  days  whose  weaving 
Stretches  from  sun  to  sun, 

And  days  of  dull  believing, 
Whose  tedious  course  is  run. 

The  days  of  haste  and  worry 

When  interruptions  throng, 
The  days  of  waste  and  flurry 

That  leave  no  heart  for  song, 
The  days  of  earthly  leaven, 

And  dimming  worldly  dross, 
The  empty  days  bereaven, 

In  shadow  of  the  cross. 

Yes,  these  shall  all  be  over, 

And  garments  bright  with  praise 
Their  memory  shall  cover 

Beyond  our  broken  days. 
Such  petty  trifles  pain  us, 

Here  in  this  fevered  life, 
Such  dragging  fetters  chain  us, 

Our  hands  with  care  so  rife, 

We  scarce  discern  how  holy 
And  sweet  the  time  might  be 

If  spent  in  converse  lowly, 
O  gracious  King,  with  Thee. 

We  lose  the  tender  gladness 
It  might  be  ours  to  win, 
92 


And,  trail  our  robes  in  sadness, 
And  stain  their  folds  with  sin. 

Bless  God,  there's  no  temptation 

To  snare  the  hearts  at  home, 
To  heaven's  pure  isolation 

No  strife  or  ill  shall  come. 
The  Lord  who  loved  and  bought  us 

Lays  up  a  feast  of  praise, 
Until  He  safe  have  brought  us 

Beyond  our  broken  days. 


THE   COMMUNION   OF   SAINTS 

A  THOUSAND  leagues  of  land  and  sea 
Divide,  to-day,  my  friend  and  me. 

I  cannot  clasp  her  tender  hand, 
Or  in  her  gracious  presence  stand  ; 

No  word  of  mine  may  reach  her  ear, 
And  yet  I  hold  her  close  and  dear. 

In  loyal  thought  my  love  is  sent, 
O'er  mountain  chain  and  continent ; 

In  vain  extends  the  widest  sea 
To  separate  my  friend  and  me, 

Since  heart  to  heart,  o'er  time  and  space, 
Her  truth  is  still  my  dwelling-place. 

Where  gates  of  chrysoprase  and  pearl 
Their  gleaming  leaves  of  light  unfurl, 
94 


Where  evermore  the  glory  falls 
On  golden  floor  and  jewelled  walls, 

Where  Christ  Himself  the  ransomed  praise 
Through  long,  unclouded,  sinless  days — 

There,  safe  beyond  these  changeful  tides, 
Dear  as  my  life,  a  friend  abides. 

Not  mine  to  touch  His  garment's  hem, 
Not  mine,  as  yet,  the  floods  to  stem, 

And  on  the  hills  forever  fair 
Breathe  gladly  love's  divinest  air. 


''M 


ut  death  and  distance  cannot  part 
My  friend  and  me  ;    for  heart  to  heart, 


The  one  in  heaven,  the  one  on  earth, 
We  share  the  new  and  royal  birth. 

Gone  on  a  little  while  before, 

My  friend  hath  pain  and  pang  no  more. 

And  I,  who  wait  till  even-song 
Shall  waft  my  latest  prayer  along, 

And  carry  up  my  praiseful  breath 
By  some  angelic  wing  of  death, 
95 


Know  well,  full  well,  that,  heart  to  heart, 
We,  parted  here,  but  seem  to  part. 

For  since  the  Lord  of  life  is  King, 

His  pilgrims  homeward  pledged  to  bring; 

Not  powers  beneath,  nor  hosts  above, 
Can  break  the  triple  bands  of  love. 

There  menaces,  on  land  or  sea, 
No  peril  to  my  friend  and  me. 

/There  is  no  fear,  let  come  what  will, 
But  I  shall  keep  my  friend,  who  still, 

Invisible  to  mortal  sense, 

Abides,  in  God's  good  Providence, 

The  hour  when  we  again  shall  meet. 
Nay,  often,  at  the  Mercy  Seat, 

A  hand,  once  pierced,  unites  us  both  ; 
Beyond  the  reach  of  rust  and  moth 

Our  precious  things  for  us  are  stored, 
When  one  is  present  with  the  Lord, 

And  one  anear  the  hither  sea 
Is — with  the  Lord — content  to  be. 
96 


MY   ALABASTER   BOX 

IT  was  not  at  meat  in  the  Pharisee's  house 
That  I  sought  the  Lord  to-day, 

Nor  yet  in  my  closet,  hushed  and  fair, 
When  I  lowly  knelt  to  pray, 

But  I  carried  my  box  of  ointment  sweet 

In  the  face  of  the  throngs  that  I  chanced  to 
meet. 

"  It  is  jewelled  and  precious,"  I  proudly  cried, 
"  And  it  cost  me  gems  and  gold, 

And  see,  I  shall  pour  it  freely  out 
That  my  neighbors  may  behold, 

And  then  I  will  meekly  go  my  way. 

'  She  has  broken  her  box,' "  will   the  gazers 
say. 

So  up  and  down  through  the  busy  street, 

Seeking  my  Lord,  I  went, 
My  head  held  high  and  my  soul  on  fire 

With  the  glow  of  its  good  intent, 
And  presently  hard  where  two  roads  met 
Stood  One  whom  my  soul  cannot  forget. 
G  97 


Down  in  the  dust  at  His  beautiful  feet, 
With  my  trailing  draperies  white, 

I  cast  myself  with  the  odors  sweet — 

Were  there  angels  to  watch  the  sight  ? — 

"  Lo  !  I  for  Thy  pleasing  have  brought  my  best; 

Take  it,  sweet  Saviour,  and  give  me  rest !" 

He  stayed  me  then  with  a  kingly  word  ; 

"Not  so,  my  child!"  said  He. 
"  Hast  thou   never  a  thought  of  the   hidden 

name 

In  the  hands  that  were  pierced  for  Thee  ? 
Would'st  thou  wound  the  heart  that  broke 

to  save 
Thy  life  from  the  power  that  holds  the  slave? 

"  Bring  hither  thy  pride  and  thy  discontent 
And  thy  cherished  and  vain  self-will  ; 

Empty  thy  soul  of  its  low  desires 
That  My  love  that  soul  may  fill. 

It  is  not  thy  jewelled  box  I  crave  ; 

I  am  seeking  the  soul  that  I  died  to  save. 

"  And  never  a  gift  of  precious  worth 

Canst  thou  bestow  upon  me 
While  thou  shuttest  thy  poorest  brother  out 

From  thy  quickened  sympathy, 
And  never  in  crowds  and  sordid  show 
Can  I  my  best  upon  thee  bestow." 
98 


The  vision  faded ;   the  throng  whirled  by  ; 

I  stood  in  the  path  alone. 
Then  I  went  to  seek  for  the  lost,  the  weak, 

Since  my  blessed  Lord  was  gone. 
Wherever  they  need  me  the  box  I  break, 
To-day,  to-day,  for  my  Lord's  dear  sake. 


ONLY   IN   THEE 

FAIN  would  I  be  strong  with  the  heart   of 

the  brave, 

All  fearless  in  conflict,  all  calm  in  defeat ! 
Fain   would   I    be    patient,  Lord,   patience    I 

crave, 

In  pain  to  be  silent,  submissive  and  sweet. 
Oh,  where  shall  I  find  it,  the  strength  I  would 

win, 

As  pilgrim  I  journey  through  peril  and  sin  ? 
My  Master,  my  Saviour,  my  help  is  in  Thee, 
In  Thee  is  my  help,  Lord,  'tis  only  in  Thee. 

Fain  would  I  be  gentle,  whatever  betide, 

And   meek,  unresisting,  returning  no  word 
In  haste  or  in  anger  to  those  at  my  side 
Who  may  grieve  or  annoy  me.     Thy  gen 
tleness,  Lord, 
Bestow  on  thy  child,  that  her  looks  may  be 

fair, 

And    mildness    distil    from    her    speech,   and 
her  care 

100 


Be  laid  at  Thy  feet ;  for  whatever  it  be 

In  Thee  is  my  help,  Lord,  and  only  in  Thee. 

Fain  would  I  be  faithful,  so  daily  to  prove 
To  those  whom  I  meet  that  my  life  has  a 

spring 

Abundant  in  beauty  and  precious  in  love, 
And  that  close  to  the  Vine  in   my  earth- 
life  I  cling. 

Fain  would  I  be  faithful,  nor  follow  afar, 
Fain  would  I  abide  where   Thy  chosen  ones 

are  ; 

My  Master,  my  Saviour,  be  gracious  to  me, 
In  Thee  is  my  help,  Lord,  and  only  in  Thee. 

Fain  would  I  be  cheerful,  and  sing  as  I  go, 
Uplifting  Thy  praises  through  darkness  and 

dawn  ; 
Fain  wear  a  white  robe,  not  the  garment  of 

woe, 

And  joyously,  blithely,  and  gayly  go  on. 
Oh,  bid  me  to  triumph  and  smile  through  my 

tears, 

Oh,  crown  me  a  victor  o'er  trials  and  fears. 
My  Master,  my  Master,  my  joy  is  in  Thee, 
In  Thee  is  my  help,  Lord,  and  only  in  Thee. 


GOING   HOME 

OUT  of  the  chill  and  the  shadow 

Into  the  thrill  and  the  shine  ; 
Out  of  the  dearth  and  the  famine 

Into  the  fulness  divine. 
Up  from  the  strife  and  the  battle 

(Oft  with  the  shamerul  defeat), 
Up  to  the  palm  and  the  laurel, 

Oh,  but  the  rest  will  be  sweet ! 

Leaving  the  cloud  and  the  tempest, 

Reaching  the  balm  and  the  cheer, 
Finding  the  end  of  our  sorrow, 

Finding  the  end  of  our  fear. 
Seeing  the  face  of  the  Master 

Yearned  for  in  "distance  and  dream/ 
Oh,  for  that  rapture  of  gladness  I 

Oh,  for  that  vision  supreme  ! 

Meeting  the  dear  ones  departed, 

Knowing  them,  clasping  their  hands, 
1 02 


All  the  beloved  and  true-hearted, 
There  in  the  fairest  of  lands  ! 

Sin  evermore  left  behind  us, 
Pain  nevermore  to  distress  ; 

Changing  the  moan  for  the  music, 
Living  the  Saviour  to  bless. 

Why  should  we  fear  at  the  dying 

That  is  but  springing  to    lire, 
Why  should  we  shrink  from  she  struggle, 

Pale  at  the  swift  closing  strife, 
Since  it  is  only  beyond  us, 

Scarcely  a  step,  and  a  breath, 
All  that  dear  home  of  the  living, 

Guarded  by  what  we  call  death  ! 

There  we  shall  learn  the  sweet  meanings 

Hidden  to-day  from  our  eyes. 
There  we  shall  waken  like  children 

Joyous  at  gift  and  surprise. 
Come,  then,  dear  Lord,  in  the  gloaming, 

Or  when  the  dawning  is  gray ! 
Take  us  to  dwell  in  Thy  presence — 

Only  Thyself  lead  the  way. 

Out  of  the  chill  and  the  shadow 
Into  the  thrill  and  the  shine  ; 

Out  of  the  dearth  and  the  famine 
Into  the  fulness  divine. 
103 


Out  of  the  sigh  and  the  silence 
Into  the  deep-swelling  song ; 

Out  of  the  exile  and  bondage 
Into  the  home-gathered  throng. 


Ill 
THANKSGIVING 


IN   THE    OLD    HOME 

LIKE  the  patient  moss  to  the  rifted  hill, 

The  wee  brown  house  is  clinging, 
A  last  year's  nest  that  is  lone  and  still, 

Though  it  erst  was  filled  with  singing. 
Then  fleet  were  the  children's  pattering  feet, 

And  their  trilling  childish  laughter, 
And  merry  voices,  were  sweet,  oh,  sweet, 

Ringing  from  floor  to  rafter. 

The  beautiful  darlings  one  by  one, 

From  the  nest's  safe  shelter  flying, 
Went  forth  in  sheen  of  the  morning  sun, 

Their  fluttering  pinions  trying. 
But  oft  as  the  reaping-time  is  o'er, 

And  the  hoar  frost  crisps  the  stubble, 
They  haste  to  the  little  home  once  more 

From  the  great  world's  toil  and  trouble. 

And  the  mother  herself  is  at  the  pane, 
With  a  hand  the  dim  eyes  shading, 

And  the  flush  of  girlhood  tints  again 
The  cheek  that  is  thin  and  fading. 
107 


For  the  boys  and  girls  are  coming  home, 
Their  mother's  kiss  their  guerdon, 

As  they  came    ere  yet    they  had   learned  to 

roam 
Or  bowed  to  the  task   and  burden. 

Over  the  door's  worn  sill   they  troop, 

The  skies  of  youth  above  them, 
The  blessing  of  God  on  the  happy  group, 

Who  have  mother  left  to  love  them. 
They  well  may  smile  in  the  face  of  care, 

To  whom  such  grace  is  given  ; 
A  mother's  faith  and  a  mother's  prayer 

Holding  them  close  to  Heaven. 

For  her,  as  she  clasps  her  bearded  son, 

With  a  heart  that's  brimming  over, 
She's  tenderly  blending  two  in  one, 

Her  boy  and  her  boyish  lover. 
And  half  of  her  soul  is  reft  away — 

So  twine  the  dead  and  the  living, 
In  the  little  home  wherein  to-day 

Her   children   keep   Thanksgiving. 

There   are  tiny  hands   that  pull   her  gown, 
And  small  heads   bright   and   golden  ; 

The  childish  laugh  and   the  childish  frown, 
And  the  dimpled   fingers  folden, 
1 08 


That  bring  again  to  the  mother  breast 
The  spell  of  the  sunny  weather, 

When  she  hushed  her  brood  in  the  crowded 

nest 
And  all  were  glad  together. 

A  truce  to  the  jarring  notes  of  life, 

The  cries  of  pain  and  passion. 
Over  this  lull  in  the  eager  strife, 

Love  hovers,  Eden  fashion. 
In  the  wee  brown  house  were  lessons  taught 

Of  strong  and  sturdy  living, 
And  ever  where  honest  hands  have  wrought, 

God  hears  the  true  Thanksgiving. 


THANKSGIVING   ALWAYS 

WHEN  barn  and  byre  are  safe, 

When  flocks  are  in  the  fold, 
When  far  and  near  the  burdened  fields 

Have  bowed  'neath  harvest's  gold, 
When  clusters  rich  have  drooped 

From  many  a  blushing  vine, 
And  genial  orchards,  wide  and  fair, 

Have  owned  the  touch  divine, 
Then,  up  from  grateful  hearts 

Let  joyful  praise  arise 
To  Him  who  gives  the  waiting  earth 

The  blessing  of  the  skies. 

When  round  the  mother's  knee 

The  little  children  cling, 
When  night  and  morn  the  household  eaves 

With  merry  voices  ring, 
When  not  a  sunny  head 

Is  missing  from  the  throng, 
When  not  a  silver  note  is  dropped 

From  out  the  daily  song, 
no 


Then,  up  from  thankful  hearts 

Let  fervent  praise  arise 
To  Him  who  fills  the  happy  home 

With  blessing  from  the  skies. 

When  round  the  white-haired  man, 

Serene  in  stately  age, 
The  children's  children  troop  to  crown 

His  lengthened  pilgrimage, 
When  through  translucent  air 

The  gentle  matron  sees 
How  love  and  peace  have  followed  her 

While  striving  God  to  please, 
Then,  up  from  reverent  hearts 

Let  psalms  of  praise  arise 
To  Him  who  keeps  His  promises 

In  blessing  from  the  skies. 

When  blight  is  on  the  field, 

When  storms  are  o'er  the  hills, 
When  leap,  in  wildest  fury  tossed, 

The  late  rejoicing  rills, 
When  wealth  is  on  the  wane, 

And  battle  finds  defeat, 
When  bitterness  o'erbrims  the  cup 

That  erst  was  foaming  sweet, 
Ah  !  then  ?     Yea,  then,  let  thanks 

From  all  believers  rise 


To  Him  whose  chariot  is  the  clouds, 
Who  reigns  above  the  skies. 

When  rosebud  lips  are  pale, 

And  household  mirth  is  hushed, 
When  o'er  a  tiny  coffin  lid 

The  bliss  of  life  is  crushed, 
When  breaks  the  staff  of  strength 

And  snaps  the  beauteous  rod, 
Or  worse — when  dear  ones  go  astray 

And  leave  their  father's  God, 
"Even  so,  Thy  will  be  done," 

The  Christian's  heart  shall  say, 
And  find  that  will  a  central  sun 

To  light  the  darkest  day. 

Come  pleasure's  tide  at  flood, 

Come  loss  and  grief  and  pain, 
Come  death  and  parting — God  is  good, 

So  lift  we  up  the  strain 
Of  thanks  to  Him  who  keeps 

His  own  in  storm  and  calm, 
And  who  with  dearth,  or  wound,  or  cross, 

Aye  sends  a  healing  balm. 
All  days  should  therefore  be 

Thanksgivings  to  the  Wise, 
The  True,  the  Kind,  the  Sovereign  hand, 

That  rules  us  from  the  skies. 


MOTHER'S  THANKSGIVING 

SUCH  a  quaint  little  Mother,  in  a  gown  of 

silver  gray, 
Her   snowy   hair  smooth-parted,  in  the    dear 

old-fashioned  way, 
And  on  her  head  a  lint-white  cap,  of  softest, 

filmiest  lace, 
That  made  a  picture-frame  about   her  sweet 

and  placid  face. 

Such   a   brave    little   Mother !      So   many   a 

year  had  fled 
Since  her  husband,  leal  and  loving,  had  been 

numbered  with  the  dead. 
So   many,  many    summers   had   she   borne   a 

lonely  heart 
That  her  fair  age  and  his  bright  youth  were 

half  a  life  apart. 

Such  a  gentle  little  Mother  !     Ah  !   the  boys 

remember  now, 
Sorrowfully,   every    shadow    on    that    tender, 

tranquil  brow. 
H  113 


They  remember  how  she  taught  them,  how 
she  kissed  them  each  at  night, 

And  they  felt  no  need  of  angels  keeping 
watch  till  morning  light. 

Such  a  trustful  little  Mother !  There  were 
dark  days  now  and  then, 

Though  the  dear  lads  never  dreamed  it  until 
they  were  bearded  men  5 

She  would  go  away  alone,  kneeling  in  her 
chamber  dim, 

And  would  tell  the  Lord  her  troubles,  cast 
ing  all  her  care  on  Him. 

Such  a  happy  little  Mother!     With  a  laugh 

like  bells  a-chime, 
Ever  swift  to  see  the  bright  side,  ready  with 

a  quip  and  rhyme. 
Oh,  so  quick   with   love's  own  pity!    oh,  so 

earnest  'neath  the  jest ! 
Ever   lavishing   her    kindness,  giving  ever   of 

her  best. 


Such    a   winsome   little   Mother  !     Why,  the 

village  children  came 
Trooping  merrily  about  her  ;  she  knew  every 

one  by  name  ; 


Baby   faces    smiled    to    greet    hers,  by   some 

subtle  impulse  stirred, 
As   if  fledglings  knew  the   brooding  of  the 

tender  mother-bird. 

Such  a  true  little  Mother!  Never  dallying 
with  wrong  ; 

Honest  to  the  very  soul's  core  ;  bearing  bur 
dens  late  and  long  ; 

Paying  every  debt  with  interest  j  filling  every 
day  with  work, 

With  a  deep  disdain  for  any  who  the  day's 
demand  would  shirk. 

Such  a  blessed  little  Mother !  Through  their 
tears  her  sons  to-day 

Thank  the  God  she  served  and  honored  that 
she  sleeping  passed  away  ; 

Lifted  to  the  home  in  heaven,  to  the  com 
rade  gone  before, 

Just  as  earth's  Thanksgiving  greetings  floated 
through  the  open  door 


COMMON   MERCIES 

DEAR  Lord,  are  we  ever  so  thankful, 

As  thankful  as  we  should  be  to  Thee, 
For  Thine  angels  sent  down  to  defend  us 

From  dangers  our  eyes  never  see  ; 
From  perils  that  lurk  unsuspected, 

The  powers  of  earth  and  of  air, 
The  while  we  are  heaven-protected 

And  guarded  from  evil  and  snare  ? 

Are  we  grateful,  as  grateful  we  should  be, 

For  commonplace  days  of  delight, 
When  safe  we  fare  forth  to  our  labor, 

And  safe  we  fare  homeward  at  night  ; 
For  the  weeks   in  which    nothing    has   hap 
pened 

Save  commonplace  toiling  and  play, 
When    we've    worked    at    the   tasks    of   the 

household, 

And  peace  hushed  the  house  day  by  day? 
116 


Dear  Lord,  that  the  terror  at  midnight, 

The  weird  of  the  wind  and  the  flame, 
Hath  passed  by  our  dwelling,  we  praise  Thee, 

And  lift  up  our  hearts  in  Thy  name  ; 
That  the  circle  of  darlings  unbroken 

Yet  gathers  in  bliss  round  the  board, 
That  commonplace  love  is  our  portion, 

We  give  Thee  our  praises,  dear  Lord  ! 

Forgive  us  who  live  by  Thy  bounty, 

That  often  our  lives  are  so  bare 
Of  the  garlands  of  praise  that  should  render 

All  votive  and  fragrant  each  prayer. 
Dear  Lord,  in  the  sharpness  of  trouble 

We  cry  from  the  depths  to  the  throne  ! 
In  the  long  days  of  gladness  and  beauty, 

Take  Thou  the  glad  hearts  as  Thine  own. 

Oh,  common  are  sunshine  and  flowers, 

And  common  are  raindrop  and  dew, 
And  the  gay  little  footsteps  of  children, 

And  common  the  love  that  holds  true. 
So,  Lord,  for  our  commonplace  mercies, 

That  straight  from  Thy  hand  are  bestowed, 
We  are  fain  to  uplift  our  thanksgivings — 

Take,  Lord,  the  long  debt  we  have  owed. 


IV 
CHRISTMAS  SONGS 


HER   GIFTS 

A  DEAR  little  mother  is  waiting  apart — 

The  mother  of  children  three. 
"  My  Lord,"  she  cries,  in  the  hush  of  her  heart, 

"  Wilt  Thou  take  a  gift  from  me  ? 
I  have  heard  the  angels  sing  Thy  birth, 

I  have  followed  Thy  shining  star, 
And  here  at  the  shrine  of  all  the  earth, 

Lo !    I  and  my  children  are. 

"  And  all  in  the  glow  of  the  Christmas  morn, 

My  gold  to  lay  at  Thy  feet, 
I  am  leading  my  darlings  with  care  unworn, 

With  brows  that  are  pure  and  sweet. 
Oh,  never  had  gems  from  the  mines  such  worth 

As  the  treasure  to-day  I  bring 
To  the  beautiful  shrine  of  all  the  earth, 

To  the  glorious  Infant  King. 

"  My  children  three,  with  their  waving  hair 
And  the  fearless  look  in  their  eyes, 

They  lisp  thy  name  in  the  vesper  prayer, 
And  at  matins  when  they  rise. 
121 


Nothing  they  know  of  the  dole  and  dearth 
Of  souls  that  with  sin  have  striven  ; 

They  kneel  at  the  shrine  of  all  the  earth — 
4  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven.'  " 

They  stand  in  the  shadow  of  pine  and  fir  j 

They  listen,  and,  floating  through, 
They  catch  the  answer  that's  sent  to  her 

Through  a  rift  in  the  upper  blue : 
44  Since   the    Christ-child  came  to   the  weary 
earth 

No  gifts  are  to  Him  so  sweet 
As  the  children's  hearts,  with  their  joy  and 
mirth, 

Lovingly  brought  to  His  feet. 


EMBERS 

STILL  the  embers  glow, 
Though  the  fire  is  faint  and  low, 
Though  the  frost  is  on  the  pane, 
And  the  year  is  on  the  wane, 

Still  the  embers  glow. 

In  the  pine  wood  deep, 
Where  the  shadows  lie  asleep, 
Where  the  storm  complains  at  night, 
And  the  winter  drifts  are  white, 

In  the  pine  wood  deep, 

Stands  the  Christmas-tree, 
Waiting  for  the  children's  glee  ; 
Waiting  for  the  mother's  hand, 
And  the  joyous  household  band, 

Stands  the  Christmas-tree. 

In  the  shops  so  bright, 
Stuffs  with  rainbow  hues  of  light, 
Costly,  carven,  rich,  and  rare, 
Curious  gifts  beyond  compare, 
123 


Never  she  of  woman  born 

But  must  wear  the  crown  of  thorn, 

Never  she  whose  horoscope 

Bore  not  dread  amid  its  hope. 

Who  save  Egypt's  olden  Sphynx 

Can  interpret  what  she  thinks, 

Maid  with  downcast  eyes  who  broods, 

In  a  world  of  solitudes, 

Silent  as  the  forest  shrine 

Where  great  Pan  is  throned  divine  ? 


THE   ANNUNCIATION 

WITH  grave  eyes  rapt  in  dreams  of  prayer, 
She  sits  alone  within  the  room, 

Unheeding  if  around  her  there 

Be  golden  ray  or  deepening  gloom. 

Her  heart  uplifted,  silent,  sweet, 

Her  thought  goes  forth  her  Lord  to  greet. 

And  thus  attent  before  the  King, 
No  sense  of  strangeness  startles  her 

When  one  from  Heaven  draws  near  to  bring 
A  sign  to  Heaven's  worshipper. 

"Hail,  Mary!"  fills  her  soul  with  bliss, 

Her  tranquil  years  have  waited  this. 

Behold  a  lily  in  his  hand, 

A  lily  by  the  angels  sown, 
With  fragrance  from  the  deathless  land  ; 

This  lily,  in  God's  garden  grown, 
Salutes  her  purity,  as  white 
As  robes  the  saints  wear  in  God's  sight. 

127 


Oh,  sacred  grace  of  motherhood ! 

Divinest  thing  beneath  the  sky, 
Which  yet  the  heavens  overbrood, 

The  watching  angels  hovering  nigh. 
Unending  rite  of  sacrifice, 
Costly  beyond  earth's  utmost  price. 

"Hail,  Mary!"  thrills  each  mother  soul; 

Ere  yet  the  life  beat  faint  and  sweet, 
That  shall  not  cease  while  ages  roll, 

Each  mother  hears  the  glad  repeat, 
And  thenceforth,  hallowed,  dwells  apart, 
Heaven's  matchless  lily  in  her  heart. 


THE    STAR    OF    BETHLEHEM 

WHAT  became  of  the  Star,   the    Bethlehem 

Star, 

That  was  followed  by  kings  and  sages 
As  they  journeyed  o'er  desert  and  mountain 

far, 
To  find  the  Pearl  of  the  Ages  ? 

Did  the  angels  quench  its  torch  of  fire 
In  the  first  sweet  Christmas  dawn, 

When  they  sang  to  the  world  of  the  world's 

desire, 
Er^  the  night  from  the  hills  had  gone  ? 

Did  it  suddenly  vanish  into  space, 
Blown  out,  when  its  golden  ray 

Had  bathed  in  glory  the  lonely  place 
Where  the  Child  and  mother  lay? 

And  since  I  wonder,  but  cannot  tell, 
Some  day  to  come  I  shall  know  j 
I  129 


It  may  guide  the  steps  of  the  wise  who  dwell 
Where  the  heavenly  mansions  glow, 

When  they  shut  their  eyes  on  the   lamps  of 
earth, 

And  with  silent  feet  unshod, 
Go  forth  to  look  for  the  Father's  hearth 

In  the  beautiful  City  of  God. 

It  well  may  be  the  Bethlehem  Star 

Shines  out  across  their  way, 
Leading  them  safe,  or  near,  or  far, 

To  the  Prince  of  the  deathless  day. 

Oh  !   Star  that  over  the  manger  stood 
The  night  when  Christ  was  born, 

When  the  Only  Potent,  the  Only  Good, 
Came  down  to  this  world  forlorn. 

Still  shine  in  the  heart  of  mother  and  child 
Wherever  love  reigns  and  sings, 

And  the  face  of  a  little  one  undefiled 
Hath  that  which  may  conquer  kings. 

Oh  !   Bethlehem  Star,  through  pain  and  loss, 

Still  over  the  cradle  shine, 
And^omfort  us  if  a  shadowy  cross 

There  glimmer  in  faint  outline. 
130 


For  we  cannot  but  take  the  self-same  path 
That  was  trodden  by  kings  and  sages, 

When   they  dared   the   base  world's   utmost 

wrath, 
And  sought  the  Pearl  of  the  Ages. 


WHEN   CHRISTMAS   COMES 

WHEN  Christmas  comes, 
The  baby  girl  who  scarce  can  speak, 
The  youth  with  bronzed  and  bearded  cheek, 
The  aged  bent  with  weight  of  years, 
The  sorrow-stricken  spent  with  tears, 
The  poor,  the  rich,  the  grave,  the  gay, 
Who  fare  along  life's  rugged  way, 
Are  glad  of  heart  when,  in  the  sky, 
The  wondrous  seraph  wings  sweep  by, 

When  Christmas  comes. 

When  Christmas  comes, 
The  sailor  on  the  seas  afloat, 
The  traveller  in  lands  remote, 
The  warrior  by  the  camp-fire's  light, 
The  courtier  in  the  palace  bright, 
The  student  by  the  midnight  lamp, 
The  miner  deep  in  dust  and  damp, 
Alike  uplift,  through  riven  skies, 
The  wondering  look  of  glad  surprise, 

When  Christmas  comes. 
132 


When  Christmas  comes, 
In  field  and  street,  in  mart  and  farm, 
The  world  takes  on  a  lovelier  charm  ; 
Sweet-scented  boughs  of  pine  and  fir 
Are  brought,  like  frankincense  and  myrrh, 
To  make  our  hallowed  places  meet 
For  hands  that  clasp  and  tones  that  greet, 
While  hearts,  worth  more  than  gold  or  gem, 
Go  forth  to  find  their  Bethlehem, 

When  Christmas  comes. 


CHRISTMAS    EVE 

WELL,  John,  we  will  hang  up  our  stockings- 
There  are  only  you  and  I 

To  keep  alive  the  Yule-log, 
As  the  lonely  years  go  by. 

Once  we  had  quite  a  dozen 
To  hang  in  a  cheerful  row, 

Where  the   good   Saint   Nicholas  packed  his 

gifts 
Snugly  from  knee  to  toe. 

There  were  four  for  our  fathers  and  mothers, 

Both  of  us  had  them  then, 
And  we  drove  in  a  nail  for  Cousin  Ruth, 

And  another  for  Uncle  Ben. 
And  the  dear  little  children  followed, 

And  then  came  yours  and  mine  ; 
I  can  see  that  row  of  stockings, 

Through  my  gathering  tears  they  shine. 

Oh  !   sweet  in  the  dusk  of  twilight, 
Were  our  Christmas  Eves,  dear  John ! 
134 


And  merry  and  gay  were  our  Christmas  morns 
In  the  years  that  I  think  upon. 

For  old  and  young  together 

Were  merry  and  blithe  and  gay, 

In  the  whirl  of  the  blessed  old-time 
When  we  kept  our  Christmas  day. 

We  two  have  grown  grave  and  silent, 

Though  we  have  not  grown  apart. 
You   are   more  to   me   than   the  whole   wide 
world, 

I  more  to  you,  sweetheart ! 
But  the  children  are  men  and  women, 

With  their  own  full  lives  to  live  ; 
And  they've  only  a  moment  now  and  then, 

To  the  old  home  nest  to  give. 

And  a  furrowed  ridge,  in  the  grave-yard, 

Covers  the  bit  of  earth 

Where   they    sleep,  through    snow    and    sun 
shine, 

The  dear  ones  who  gave  us  birth. 
The  world  is  narrowing  in,  John, 

It  will  be  our  turn  to  go 
Some  Christmas  Eve,  in  the  gloaming, 

When  the  lights  are  dim  and  low. 

But  we'll  not  be  sorrowful,  darling — 
You  mind  the  dear  old  tune, 
135 


That  we  sang  with  tripping  tongues,  love, 
When  our  sun  was  at  its  noon. 

For  I  think  we'll  hear  the  angels, 
As  the  gates  of  pearl  swing  wide, 

And  we  step  ashore  in  the  morning 
On  the  river's  farther  side. 

So,  John,  we  will  yet  keep  Christmas, 

And  bid  the  Yule-log  glow, 
And  crowd  our  stockings  with  presents, 

Lovingly,  heel  and  toe. 
Perhaps  the  dear  Saint,  passing, 

Will  smile  a  little  to  see 
How  much  like  merry  children 

A  happy  old  pair  can  be. 


GOD    BLESS    US    ALL 

GOD  bless  us  all!     With  Tiny  Tim 
'Tis  thus  we  finish  prayer  and  hymn, 
While  cheerily  from  lip  to  lip 
The  Christmas  wishes  gayly  trip  5 
God  bless  us  all,  the  circle  round, 
Wherever  are  our  dear  ones  found  ; 
At  home,  abroad,  please  God,  we  say, 
God  bless  His  own  on  Christmas  Day  ! 

God  bless  the  golden  heads  arow 
Where  ruddy  hearth  flames  leap  and   glow  ; 
God  bless  the  baby  hands  that  clasp 
Heart  fibres  in  their  clinging  grasp  ; 
God  bless  the  youth  with  eager  gaze  ; 
God  bless  the  sage  of  lengthened  days  ; 
At  home,  abroad,  please  God,  we  cry, 
God  guard  His  own,  'neath  any  sky  ! 

God  ease  the  weary  ones  who  bear 
A  cumbering  weight  of  grief  and  care  j 
137 


God  give  the  wage  no  ill  can  spoil, 
The  honest  loaf  for  honest  toil  j 
We  sound  the  heartfelt  prayer  and  hymn, 
And  breathe  "  Amen,"  with  Tiny  Tim, 
As  reverently,  please  God,  we  say, 
God  bless  us  all  on  Christmas  Day  ! 


V 
EASTER 


AN   EASTER   SONG 

SING  a  song  of  Easter, 

A  song  of  happy  hours, 
Of  dashing  spray,  and  shadow  play, 

And  lovely  springing  flowers, 
Of  birds  come  home  again  to  build 

Beside  the  cottage  eaves, 
Of  waking  buds,  and  rushing  floods, 

And  dance  of  rustling  leaves. 

Sing  a  song  of  Easter, 

A  song  that  means  a  prayer 
Of  want  and  love  to  One  above 

Who  keeps  His  world  in  care  $ 
A  song  for  all  on  this  green  earth, 

For  dear  ones  passed  away, 
Sing  clear  and  strong  the  joyful  song, 

The  song  of  Easter  Day. 

Sing  a  song  of  Easter, 
A  song  of  pure  delight, 
141 


A  song  that  starts  in  merry  hearts, 
And  swells'from  morn  till  night  ; 

An  Easter  song  that  children  lift, 
Without  a  jarring  chord, 

That  thrills  afar  from  star  to  star, 
To  praise  the  children's  Lord. 


MARY 

SHE  walked  amid  the  lilies 

Upstanding  straight  and  tall, 
Their  silver  tapers  bright  against 

The  dusky  mountain  wall  j 
Gray  olives  dropped  upon  her 

Their  crystal  globes  of  dew, 
The  while  the  doors  of  heaven  grew  wide 

To  let  the  Easter  through. 

All  heaven  was  rose  and  golden, 

The  clouds  were  reft  apart, 
Earth's  holiest  dawn  in  dazzling  white 

Cam*  forth  from  heaven's  own  heart  j 
And  never,  since  on  Eden 

Creation's  glory  lay, 
Had  ever  garden  of  the  Lord 

Beheld  so  fair  a  day. 

Her  eyes  were  blurred  with  weeping, 
Her  trailing  steps  were  slow  ; 


The  cross  she  bore  within  her 
Transfixed  her  soul  with  woe. 

One  only  goal  before  her 

Loomed  through  her  spirit's  gloom, 

As  in  the  early  morning 

She  sought  the  guarded  tomb. 

But  down  the  lilied  pathway 

A  kingly  presence  came, 
A  seamless  garment  clothed  Him, 

His  face  was  clear  as  flame, 
And  in  His  hands  were  nail-prints, 

And  on  His  brow  were  scars, 
But  in  His  eyes  a  light  of  love 

Beyond  the  light  of  stars. 

For  tears  she  could  not  see  Him, 

As  o'er  the  path  He  came, 
Till,  like  remembered  music, 

He  called  her  by  her  name  ; 
Then  swift  her  soul  to  answer, 

The  Lord  of  life  she  knew, 
Her  breast  unbarred  its  prison  gates 

To  let  the  Easter  through. 

Such  light  of  revelation 
As  bathed  her  being  then, 

It  comes  anew  wherever  Christ 
Is  known  indeed  of  men  j 
144 


Such  glory  on  the  pathway, 

It  falls  again  on  all 
Who  hear  the  King  in  blessing, 

And  hasten  at  His  call. 

Rise,  King  of  grace  and  glory, 

This  hallowed  Easter-tide, 
Nor  from  Thy  ransomed  people 

Let  even  death  divide  ; 
For  yet  again  doth  heaven 

Throw  all  its  gates  apart, 
And  send  the  sacred  Easter 

Straight  from  its  glowing  heart. 
K 


THE    END 


J 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


REC'D  I 
DEC 


967 


Form  L-9-15m-7,'35 


UNiVEKSlTY  of  CALIFORNIA 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 
LIBRARY          , 


UCLA-Young  Research  Library 

PS2767   .058 

y 


L  009  593  261    2 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  218067    5 


